


Choose Every Single Day

by Noxnthea



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton's low self-esteem, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone Needs A Hug, Found Family, Getting Together, Group Therapy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Sam Wilson is a Saint, Slow Burn, Therapy, seriously the slowest this is a fic first and foremost about individual growth, wanda maximoff is everyone's little sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 103,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxnthea/pseuds/Noxnthea
Summary: Clint has once again been wrangled into doing something because Natasha thinks it’ll be good for him; he’s not sure why she thinkssheneeds therapy too, but he knows better than to question her logic at this point.Bucky’s doubtful that group therapy is going to do much for his crippling sense of self-loathing (and to be honest, he really doesn’t want the help), but Steve’s convinced it will be beneficial for both of them to learn to deal with the mistakes from their past.None of them ever expected to have to deal with secret government organizations, eccentric billionaires, or unwanted super powers on top of their personal problems, but then, theyarealready paying Sam.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 123
Kudos: 128





	1. Pre-Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> Immeasurable thanks to [ sara_holmes ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes/works)for looking this monstrosity over, helping me see plot holes and giving me the feedback I needed to get this out into the world. And thanks, of course, to the winterhawk community for helping me fall in love with these boyos enough to write 100k words about them. 
> 
> This fic is complete (minus some editing) and will be updated Tuesdays and Fridays from now until 02/12/2021 because numbers are cool.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey you know how everyone knows all the Avengers should probably go to therapy? It turns out, they met there._

“Are you sure they won’t be mad at me?”

Natasha glances over at him, her expression softening from her initial eye roll as she catches the genuine worry on his face. “No, Clint, they won’t be mad. You explained yourself to the therapist, anyway. And Sam’s good people, he already let everyone know that there would be someone else joining us.”

Clint gives a small smile, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans as he walks alongside her down the Brooklyn sidewalk. “I still feel really shitty about it. It’s awkward, missing the first session. And I already feel awkward about doing this at all, you know.”

“I know, durak.” Natasha bumps her shoulder up against his arm. He stumbles, smile widening a tiny bit. “But then, everything you do is awkward, especially when you go into it with that attitude, hmm?”

The cool November air swirls around them as the sun sets, car horns honking, a casual New York cacophony that goes unnoticed by the pair. Clint narrowly sidesteps another pedestrian, and chuckles.

“You’re right, of course. Life is awkward. Everything is uncomfortable, new things suck, therapy is new, and therefore it is both sucky and uncomfortable. Then, throw me in the mix and you’ve got a whole new level of discomfort and awkward. Might as well send me out nude in front of a crowd full of people on a unicycle.”

“Clint. Get out of your head for a moment, would you? I’m saying that you’re making this out to be something bigger than it is, okay?” Natasha says, stopping him with a hand to the arm. “You’re starting to sound like one of the kids from work.”

Clint pauses at her hand, then lets out an embarrassed chuckle at her claim, bringing up a hand to rub at the blond hair at the back of his neck. “Jesus, you’re right, I am, aren’t I? You’d think I was 16, awkward this, awkward that, all self-centered and thinking everyone’s going to be focused on me.”

“It’s group therapy, Clint. Everyone’s going to be focused on themselves. That’s what we’re there for. You’re allowed to be self-centered about it as long as you remember that everyone else will be a little self-centered, too.” Natasha’s eyes crinkle, and she pats him on the shoulder before beginning to walk again.

Clint thinks about that for a moment, then turns to catch up. As he does, someone emerges from a nearby bodega, and Clint spins, tripping over his feet to avoid them. He lurches to the side, shoots a hand out to catch himself on a parking meter, but his hand slips off, metal wet from an earlier rain shower. His body’s momentum continues sideways and he stumbles off the curb, catching himself at the last moment, both hands wrapped tight around the pole of the meter. As he pulls himself up, his hip smacks into the motorcycle parked there, and he freezes, heart stopping for a moment while the bike wobbles. It doesn’t fall over, thankfully, and he lets out a sigh, shakes his head, then jogs to catch up with Nat. She’s waiting for him a few steps up, a smirk on her face.

“Graceful, poised, elegant, refined,” she lists, threading her arm through his. “A perfect 10 out of 10 for style and class.”

“Nat, you don’t understand, I thought my heart was going to explode when I hit that motorcycle,” Clint breathes, rubbing at his hip. “Bang me up, scrapes and bruises, I’m used to that, but Jesus, if I had ruined some poor dude’s bike just because I tripped…I don’t even want to think about having to pay for that.”

“Interesting assumption about the gender of that bike’s owner,” Natasha says, laughing when Clint’s eyes bug out in indignation.“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’ll give you a pass for the adrenaline that must be going through your system right now. Besides, I’m here, I’d’ve helped you develop a solid defense for it being an accident, unprompted by intentional action.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘dude’ is practically gender neutral at this point,” Clint grumbles, hitching her arm up. “But I’m sure I’d get saddled with charges regardless. No matter how amazing you are in court, Nat, you can’t defend idiocy.”

“You’d be surprised at how idiotic some of the people I’ve defended have been,” Nat says, her smile fading.

“Hey, hey, let’s not go there, then,” Clint says, moving her hand from where it lay in the crook of his elbow to twine with his hand. “We’re two blocks away from therapy, let’s save all that talk for there, okay? You can go back to calling me an idiot, instead.”

“Perfect, distract me from my issues by encouraging me to help you fixate on yours, is that what you want, Clint? I don’t call you an idiot to make you feel bad about yourself. In fact, I might have to stop all together if Sam says that’ll help you,” Nat says, raising her eyebrows contemplatively. “I wonder how drastically my vocabulary will change if I have to omit idiot from my daily vernacular?”

Clint smiles, letting the question go unanswered. A breeze sweeps down from over the streetlight, and they pause at the stop sign. He shifts on his feet and shivers, goosebumps drifting down below the neck of his hoodie.

Clint’s a busy guy—he kind of has to be. He’s been working at the center for nearly five years now, and loves it with just about everything he is, but being a part time youth activity coordinator doesn’t pay the bills, not in Brooklyn. He’s got regular shifts there weekday afternoons, and spends a few mornings and most weekends at his other jobs, the ones with shitty paychecks and not a whole lot of meaning. He’s got a pretty stupid schedule that he can just work taking care of his dog into, but he’d promised Nat he’d make sure to be available every Tuesday evening for the next six months. Then last week, well, life had happened; there was a kid at work whose parents were being accused of neglect, and Clint just hadn’t felt right leaving her at the center with the evening staffer, not when Clint had been the one she’d opened up to. So Clint had been a no-show to the first group therapy session in classic Barton style, and shit if that didn’t just encapsulate his train wreck of an existence.

“So you really don’t think everyone else will be upset that I missed the first session? Or made uncomfortable by it?” Clint asks Natasha, tilting his head down to look at his best friend. “You know I don’t really care about being uncomfortable. I’m hella awkward all the time, I know that about myself, and it’s…fine. It’s fine. I just don’t want to make everyone else feel uncomfortable. Like I’m an intruder in their space.”

Nat looks up at him, brown eyes searching his. “I promise. We didn’t really get to sharing all of our big life secrets last time. You already know what we went through from the notes and Sam’s syllabus I brought home to you. We just did that group norming thing, and he explained how things were going to go.”

They move forward with the crowd, crossing cracked white lines made gray through years of heavy traffic and poor infrastructure funding. Natasha moves with ease as though an invisible bubble surrounds her, one partially cohabitated by Clint. On his other side, a young woman with a bright pink cellphone jostles his shoulder, and he wonders how Nat manages to do it. Maybe she exudes an aura that he never quite noticed, an aura that says something like ‘touch me and die.’

“I know. I can’t help it. I just don’t…want to make people uncomfortable,” he repeats, shrugging.

She tightens her grip on his hand. “You won’t, Clint. You never make people uncomfortable. Well,” she amends with a smile, “you rarely do. Especially if we ignore all of the second-hand embarrassment your friends feel around you.”

He chuckles and lets her gentle joking ease his concerns, as he’s sure she no doubt intended. Natasha can read him like a book, and after over a decade as first friends, then best-friends, then scarily codependent roommates, she knows exactly when and how to push him either into or away from his comfort zone. That’s why they’re in this situation, on their way to group therapy together. She’d said they needed it, and badgered him until he accepted.

He looks down across the top of her head, red hair covered by a black beanie in defense from the fall chill. He loves this woman a lot, and is grateful for everything she does for him, no matter how uncomfortable her actions often make him. They’d been through a lot together over the years, and he can’t quite imagine what shape he’d be in if he hadn’t had her determination, tenacity, and strength beside him. He looks up to her in just about every aspect of life outside of literal height.

It had been a surprise when she came to him a few months ago with the idea to go to group therapy. At first, he’d thought she meant to push just him into it, and was confused when she made it clear that she intended for them to attend together. Their jobs, she claimed, were slowly killing them, and they both needed to work on how they saw themselves. No matter how she explained it, he still had trouble understanding how on earth she could possibly see herself in any negative way. Himself, sure, he knew she was right when she pestered him about his self-worth and how he threw himself into his work to avoid actually confronting his issues (or were those his issues? He didn’t know), but Nat? She was just about perfect in his eyes, and the thought that she didn’t think so bothered him enough to make him agree to go with her. He trusted her judgement in most things, after all.

“So, is there anything I need to know before I go in? About anyone, the situation?” Clint asks as they come to a stop in front of a nondescript building, brown-gray walls looming high above them. There are colorful flyers advertising services and events plastered to a bulletin board near the door. Two people lean against one of the walls, far away by the corner near an old outdoor ashtray post, talking quietly together. Each has a lit cigarette dangling from their fingertips, red burning bright in the dusk settling around them.

“Nothing I haven’t already told you. Sam told everyone you’d be here, that you had to miss the first session due to an emergency at work, and that you would have gone through all of the group norms and expectations before tonight,” Natasha assures him.“Though if you’re asking for details about the people who are going to be there, you should know better. That’s against our second norm of assumed confidentiality.”

“Yeah, yeah, the Vegas clause.” Clint doesn’t look at her, eyes moving around the facade of the building instead. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Good,” Natasha says, and pokes him in the side, startling Clint into looking at her. “And I wish you wouldn’t call it that. Confidentiality is more important than stupid decisions made in front of Elvis Presley priests and pre-paid hookers.”

He narrows his eyes playfully at her and says, “Alright, if you’re gonna get onto me for my gender assumptions and social faux-pas, is that the right way to refer to a woman of the night?”

She rolls her eyes at him, and stage whispers in exasperation, “ _Woman of the_ _night?_ What is this, 1940? God, Clint.”

A wide grin breaks onto his face, splitting cheeks gone numb from the wind. “Thought you’d appreciate that one, Nat. Let’s go, get this over with. I need to get in there and explain myself to these people. I can’t stand out here forever.”

She nods, and they move forward together into the building.

* * *

Well this is some bull-fucking-shit, Bucky thinks to himself, looking down at the questions on the tan sheet of paper in his hand. He crumples it slightly before he sees Steve send a sharp look his way, brow tightening. Bucky sighs, then lays the paper on the table in front of him, attempting to smooth it out single-handedly. The questions stare up at him, words wrinkled, mocking.

_How do you define happiness? What do you like most about yourself? When are you at your best?_

Bucky frowns down at the questions before glancing around the room. They’re seated in two trios and have been given 10 minutes to write their answers to the prompts before being expected to share within their small group. Across the room, Steve is hunched over his paper, pencil striding smoothly across the page in his confident, unfaltering scrawl. Next to him is Natasha, the flame-haired lawyer whose cool, resting demeanor makes Bucky understand instantly how ferocious she must be in court. She is leaning back in her chair, back straight, simple black pen gliding through the questions. The third part of their trio, Wanda, isn’t writing, her hands steepled together instead, a troubled expression clouding her face. Shit, Bucky thinks, how does a person define happiness when they’re stranded in a foreign country, fleeing from persecution, having just lost their whole family? What even _is_ being happy in that situation? As Bucky watches, Wanda exhales deeply, brushes her long hair away from her face, and picks up her pen to begin writing.

Bucky turns back to his own paper. The words are still there, unanswered, inscrutable. How does he define happiness?

He narrows his eyes and palms his pencil.

_Happiness is being with family…friends? People you care about? Happiness is liking who you are, where you are, what you’re doing. Being happy means not wanting to be doing anything else. Happiness means wanting to be who you are, and people aren’t ever—_ he scratches that out— _are rarely happy because nobody—_ scratch _— not many people like who they are._ Sam had told them at the beginning of the session to avoid using absolutes because they were rarely true.

Before moving on to the next question, he hears a grumble from one of the men sitting across from him. Banner, a biological engineer—whatever the fuck that is, Bucky’d thought when he’d introduced himself last session—is glaring down at the paper in front of him, as though his eyesight alone might make it burst into flames and stop asking him questions he didn’t want to answer. Bucky can just make out several lines of rushed writing, sprinkled through with thick, scratched out sections. Banner flips his paper over with a huff, drawing angry looking geometric designs on the back, a quiet mutter under his breath. Bucky lowers his eyebrows from where they had climbed to his hairline without his knowledge, and looks down to his paper before Banner notices his watching.

_What do you like best about yourself?_

This one makes Bucky sigh again. He picks up and puts down his pencil several times, false starts each one. He can’t exactly write “nothing” and be done with it, can he? Sam would also probably disapprove of him writing that he appreciated his ability to fuck things up and get innocent people killed, or how much he loved that he had performed a job for years that perpetuated systemic injustices without questioning things. No, those weren’t options either.

Sam’s voice sounds from where he’s standing at the front of the room, arms crossed, leaning back against a table. “Y’all are about halfway through your writing time. Remember, these are hard questions, and if you’re struggling to find an answer, that’s okay. Pick something small. You’re not solving all your concerns tonight with these three questions. Just be genuine.”

_I like my hair. And that I have good friends,_ Bucky writes. Those aren’t that deep or anything, or necessarily about him as a person, but at least they’re true. He can’t say much for himself, but he does know that he’s lucky with his friends.

_When are you at your best?_

This answer comes slightly easier to Bucky as he thinks about the former question.

_I’m at my best when I’m with people who bring out the best in me, who push me to be better, do better. I’m at my best when I’m not thinking about what a fuck up I am. I’m at my best when other people prevent me from fucking up._

Bucky lays his pen down, right hand drifting up to absentmindedly rub at his left shoulder. When he makes contact, he inhales sharply and drops his hand.

The third member of their group is watching him, pen spinning casually in one of his hands. His completed questions are on the table in front of him, shiny purple ink catching light from the overheads. His mouth tilts into a small smile, but the expression in his blue eyes leaves Bucky convinced that he’s pitying him. Bucky glares at him in challenge, keeping eye contact as the guy’s brows arch and he lets out a soft, “Sorry, man,” before looking away across the room.

Bucky lets his own gaze drop away, thinking about how many people must pity him now. People he doesn’t even know, like this new guy at therapy, automatically feeling sorry for him because he is missing an arm. How many people does he pass in the streets must wonder about his story, feeling bad for the poor, one-armed wonder? How many people think that something terrible happened to him, that he was the victim?

He looks back at the sandy haired man in front of him, who is still studying the room. Clint Barton, he’d said when he sat down at the beginning, giving a cursory apology with a smile for missing the first session. Something had come up at work, he’d said, some emergency with his kids, or something like that. Bucky doesn’t know exactly how Barton could’ve had an emergency with both his work and his kids at the same time, but maybe the guy was getting his excuses mixed up. He definitely hadn’t seemed too apologetic about things, expression open, smile wide, movements casual. Now, Barton’s expression is markedly closed, with a small crease dimpling his forehead, lips tilted down among blond scruff. He looks down from his view of the room, fidgeting with his pen, flipping it back and forth between his broad hands.

“Alright y’all, let’s go ahead and begin. The instructions are on your papers, but here’s a reminder,” Sam says from the center of the room, where he is now looking back and forth between the two groups. His voice pitches, raised enough that everyone can hear him clearly. “I have a timer set for two minutes. You’re going to share your answers, one at a time, for each question. Each individual has the full two minutes to speak. Use as much or as little of that time as you want. The other two people, your job is to listen, not to respond. If the person whose turn it is ends early, that’s fine. Let yourself sit in that silence. I’ll tell you when the timer is up, and you can switch to the next person, following the same process. Questions?”

Sam makes eye contact with each individual in the room before moving on.

“Earlier I gave you each a number, 1-3. For this first question, we’re going to go in order, 1-2-3, but we’ll switch it up each round so that none of you have to go first more than once.”

Bucky looks down at the top of his paper, where he had earlier scribbled the number “2” in the corner. Safe, for now.

“Alright, our number ones, your two minutes start now. How do you define happiness?”

Banner clears his throat and darts a glance at both Barton and Bucky, before reading from his page. “Happiness is the opposite of anger, of sadness. Happiness is a synonym of success. People are happy when they succeed, and you succeed when you’re not angry or sad.” He puts his paper down, and glances at his watch. By Bucky’s estimate, only 30 seconds have passed.

Barton fidgets. Banner’s brows knit together. He shifts, and starts again. “I’m happy when I’m succeeding at what I set out to do. When I’m not happy, I’m usually angry about it. I don’t spend a lot of time happy.”

Bucky nods his head. He knows what it’s like to spend a lot of time feeling a distinct lack of success and happiness.

Banner, face contemplative, continues, “Happiness is something that people don’t succeed at, much, I think. Well,” he trails off, “yeah.”

The three of them stare at each other, eyes flicking back and forth between each other and their papers. Bucky can hear that the speaker from the other group is done, too, and they sit in collective silence.

“Alright, great, perfect,” Sam says after a moment. “Good job sitting in that discomfort.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Our number twos, your time starts now.”

Bucky picks up his paper and reads, “Happiness is being with family, I guess, or friends, if that’s what family means to you. Happiness is liking who you are, where you are, what you’re doing. Or who you’re doing it with,” he amends. “Being happy means not wanting to be doing something else. Happiness means wanting to be who you are. And like Banner said, people aren’t happy all that much, but I think it’s because not many people like who they are.”

He chooses to not look at Banner or Barton after that, resolving to not cave to the awkwardness by adding more words to fill space. He knows that trick. He fixates instead on the window to the back of the building, where he can just see a street lamp flickering above a loading bay of the warehouse next door. He spends the remaining minute and a half of his time watching people move to and from the warehouse and two black trucks. There’s a lot of people out there, all scurrying quickly, large boxes in their hands. Bucky wonders what they’re doing, whether they ever stop to contemplate the definition of happiness.

“Fantastic—our threes, you’re up.”

Bucky returns his gaze from the window as Barton begins to speak. He’s not even looking at his paper, his purple inked answers abandoned.

“I think happiness is doing things for other people, and the sense of satisfaction you get when you know that they’re better off for it. I guess my definition of happiness is kind of like Bruce’s, in that it’s all tied up with success. I don’t think you can be happy when you’re alone, because I don’t think you can be happy if you’re only trying to exist for yourself. That’s not what life’s about,” Barton says decisively, folding his arms across his chest. His hoodie, also purple, Bucky notes, stretches across his chest.

Bucky watches Barton closely as he shifts in his seat, then opens his mouth to add more. “And like you said, Bucky, happiness is about who you’re with, too. I don’t think humans are meant to be solitary creatures, because we need to be useful to others. I’m happy when I’m useful, when I know I’m contributing to how others are doing, or want to be doing. When I know I’m helping others succeed at what they want, I guess. Happiness is helping others? Sorry, that’s dumb.”

Barton looks down, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. Bucky keeps his gaze trained on him, thinking about what he’d said. If happiness is helping other people, or doing things that contribute to the greater good, Bucky sure as hell is a long way from ever being happy.

Sam clears his throat before praising them. “Good job, you guys! A third of the way done with this. Let’s move on to our second question. We’ll go 2-3-1 this time. What do you like best about yourself?”

Bucky glares at his answer to this question. He sighs, and says it anyway. “I like my hair, and I have good friends.”

He hears Barton let out a quick snort, and jerks his head up to look at him. Barton’s eyes are wide, and his hand is over his mouth, as though he can’t believe the sound that just came from his body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers through his hand, glancing at where Sam is watching Wanda speak in the other group. “It’s just that I was just thinking that you had nice hair.”

Bucky growls out defensively, “I know I do. I don’t have a lot going for me, shit, but I’ve always had good hair.” His hand moves up as though to touch his hair, and he moves his glare from Barton to his hand, willing it to stop betraying him.

Banner looks between the two of them, clearly uncomfortable, but perhaps grateful that the joke isn’t on him at the moment. Barton’s blush is staining his cheeks even darker.

Bucky snorts derisively, and returns his gaze back out of the window. The people moving back and forth have increased their speed, and Bucky can see what looks like security guards standing near both the warehouse door and the vehicles. He squints, and wonders if he can make out the make and model of the guns strapped to their sides. If he was still in the Army, he might be concerned about what was going on next door. But he’s not, so he isn’t.

He turns back as Barton begins to speak, realizing that he missed Sam’s directions to switch speakers. Barton has his paper in his hands this time.

“What I like most about myself is that I’m pretty good at not letting people down. Most of the time.” He falters, going off script with a wince.”I mean everyone lets people down sometimes, right? But I don’t, not usually. I like that I’m pretty good at my job. The kids seem to like me, and my bosses trust me. Kids have told me that I’ve helped anyway, written notes when they leave the program and stuff.”

Barton stops, then glances at Bucky before adding, with a slight smile, “And I like my height. Didn’t choose it or anything, so thanks genetics for having my back.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, and he can’t tell if Barton is trying to be a dick or trying to make himself sound like an idiot for making Bucky feel embarrassed about his own appearance-related comment. Regardless, Bucky’d rather Barton not try to do anything for him. He checks to see that Sam isn’t looking, then leans forward slightly and says in a low voice, “Height is not an accomplishment, but sure, use that to make others feel small.”

Barton’s eyes shutter, and any grin he’d had on his face falls off. Maybe he had been trying to make up for his earlier comment after all. Bucky watches as he picks the purple pen back up and spins it once on his fingers. It catches on his thumb, then drops off the side of the table. Barton leans over to grab it, his hand scrabbling at the floor, a despondent expression on his face.

* * *

Clint feels like shit.

In the space of a few minutes, he’s managed to unintentionally offend the brooding, attractive guy in his group twice. Dude is probably pissed at him for missing the first session, too, just like he’d told Nat they all would be. He finally gets a grip on his pen, hauling himself back into his seat just in time for Bruce— _Dr. Banner, but I guess I can be Bruce here_ — to begin speaking when Sam tells the number ones to begin the next round.

“I like that I persevere and don’t give up.” Bruce's eyebrows are still raised from watching Clint’s major screw-up and subsequent verbal beatdown. “I’m pretty smart, and when people listen to me, I have a lot of information to offer. Doesn’t always help because people don’t always listen, and sure, I know they don’t always listen because I present my information kind of…forcefully sometimes, but when I’m able to chill out and stay focused, I add a lot of value to my field.”

Clint wonders what this guy does, and if he’s as angry at work as he seems to be in this therapy session.

“I know I’m good at what I do,” Bruce adds, “when I’m able to do it. My emotions just get in the way sometimes, is all.”

Clint nods at him, trying to convey his empathy without violating the protocol and saying something. He’s had a lot of practice portraying specific emotions on his face over the years of working at the youth center; he knows that when people open up, they often don’t want you to solve their problems, but provide a judgement free sounding board or empathetic ear, instead. It seems to work this time, Bruce acknowledging his expression and giving a weak smile in return. It’s still a work in progress for Clint, clearly, because the smile he’d sent Bucky’s way earlier had definitely been misinterpreted. Even now, Bucky seems to be ignoring Clint, staring out of the window on the far wall at something going on outside. Clint studies his profile, letting his mind wander.

Bucky’s only got one arm, and from what Clint can tell, it’s a recent development. He’d been too reactive to how Clint had noticed the missing limb for it to be something lifelong, probably. Clint himself is used to people noticing his BTEs, and has long since developed different ways to respond without making them feel guilty for observing a disability. In many cases he’s actually been able to start a conversation about starting conversations with people with various disabilities, how not everyone will always react the same way, and how to ask questions without hurting anyone’s feelings. This obviously isn’t something Bucky has developed much skill with yet. Which is fine and all, cause it’s not like it’s the person with the disability’s responsibility to be the one to protect other peoples’ feelings: fuck the societal expectations that say otherwise.

Clint wonders what he was like before the injury, and what caused it. Bucky’s a good-looking guy, long dark hair tumbling over his shoulders, half up in a bun at the center of the back of his head. He’s got an absolute killer jawline that Clint bets he could cut something on, and sharp, grey-blue eyes that, when not overtly glaring or being shrouded by thick, furrowed brows, seem expressive and striking. Clint had watched him arrive with Steve, a tall, broad-shouldered genuine specimen of a man, and Clint wonders if they frequented bars together before Bucky’s injury, because Clint doubts like hell that Bucky’d been out to pick up dates lately.

Bucky catches him staring, and his eyes narrow further, positively burning a hole in Clint’s rapidly degrading sense of self. Aw, man, he’s probably really, really making this guy feel uncomfortable. Clint averts his eyes as Sam offers a way out.

“Okay! Last question, we’ll go 3-1-2 for this one. Threes, your answer to ‘when are you at your best?’ Two minutes on the clock, starting now!”

Clint looks to his group. Bucky and Bruce stare back.

“That’s you, three.” Bucky’s voice is flat, his expression equally so, and Clint doubts that there’s anything more Bucky could do to convey how dumb he thinks Clint is, outside of outright calling him an idiot.

“Right, right, sorry, when am I at my best,” Clint starts, feeling flustered. He brings his paper up and blinks at it, the purple ink blurring before him.“Clearly not now. Okay, um, I’m at my best when I’m surrounded by people that support me, that keep me on the right track. I’ve got some good friends, like Nat over there,” he points, “who remind me when I’m fucking things up and stop it from getting too bad. I’m at my best when I know how to actually make a difference, what people need. I’m at my best when I have my dog with me, when I’m helping people, when I’m not focused on myself. Sorry, that’s kind of all over the place.”

Bucky is looking at him, his expression for once not making Clint want to crawl under the table. It’s considering, almost open, as though Clint has said something that surprised him. Uncomfortable with the sudden change in dynamic, Clint looks away, offering a quick, “Sorry,” again. He sees Sam watching them, then looks hurriedly away, eyes latching onto the window Bucky haa been staring out of throughout the protocol. He can see movement, and lots of it. There are people moving fast—no, sprinting, around what looks like a warehouse loading dock, some of them gesturing sharply as though giving orders. It reminds him of ants if they had guards to watch over their every move, like army grunts at basic, or like the choreographers turned drill sergeants at rehearsals the night before Carson’s first performance in a new town.

“Ones, you’re up!”

Bruce begins to speak, and Clint tries to pay attention, he really does, but he finds himself unable to stop looking at what’s going on outside. He feels bad about it, and physically stops himself from looking out the window, determined to listen to what Bruce is saying. No doctor’s ever confirmed it, but he’s confident that when he’s distracted, his hearing is even worse than normal. He tunes in right as Bruce finishes his sentence, “…exciting things, that no-one else has done before, but whatever right? You don’t care when I’m at my best, do you?”

Clint widens his eyes and hastily raises his hands. “I’m so sorry, it’s not you, I swear, please, you have my attention now. Please repeat yourself, I’d really appreciate it.”

“It’s not you, well, not just you,” Bruce bites out, hands crushing his paper between them. “But it’s also this jackass, he’s been distracted this whole time, when he’s not being a dick to our faces.”

Clint looks up and realizes that Bucky has risen to his feet and is walking over to the window. Clint shoots a look at Bruce, who repeats in a growl, “Jackass,” then looks to see if Sam has noticed. He hasn’t, standing with his back to their group, facing Natasha’s trio, where Steve looks depressingly small for such a giant guy as Wanda relates her response in a quiet tone.

“I’ll just go see what’s up,” Clint says, sliding out of his seat in a quick attempt to get away from the guy who looks like he’s ready to tear apart the room at the next offense. He moves towards Bucky, who at the moment seems to be the lesser of two evils.

“What do you think is going on out there?” Clint stops next to Bucky at the window. Bucky is only a few inches shorter than Clint, for all of Bucky’s earlier comment about Clint demeaning short people, and Clint can just see over his head into the darkness as he draws even with him.

Bucky’s ever-present frown seems deeper—Clint might need to start keeping track of how far down the guy’s brows can dip, for science—and he says, “I’m not sure. It seems sketchy. I wasn’t aware that warehouse was operational.”

“You keep track of whether buildings are in use?” Clint asks. The people outside have increased their pace, and he can see the glint of what looks like some intense firearms in several of their hands.

“No, that’d be stupid. I just cased this place before I agreed to come,” Bucky says, sparing a brief look of scorn for Clint before turning to the room. “Hey Steve, come here. Sorry, Sam. And the rest of you.”

Steve apologizes quickly to his group, giving the two women a brief, but genuine looking smile. “It’s probably important.”

He strides quickly across the room, black shirt and dark wash jeans cutting an impressive image when paired with his confidence. Too bad blondes weren’t really Clint’s thing. As he approaches, Clint signs rapidly at Natasha.

[ _Something weird outside. Weapons, lots of people, we have been watching all night.]_

She nods, then uncoils gracefully from her chair, taking Wanda by the hand to pull her to her feet. She murmurs softly in her ear, and the two walk across the room to join them.

“What’s going on, Buck?” Steve settles in next to his friend, hands resting on the window sill.

“Not sure, there seems to be some sort of operation being run over there. Over the past 15 minutes, I’ve seen at least 20 people moving a high quantity of unspecified items to those unmarked trucks,” Bucky replies without inflection. “It looks like a couple of them are carrying LMGs.”

“Hmm,” Steve hums, nodding to show he understood the significance.“Looks like a drug run, or some kind of smuggling.”

Sam steps up besides them, seeming to take their serious expressions and words at face value. “Guess this is reason enough to break protocol. I’ll go grab the landline in the office, call this in. The local precinct is usually pretty responsive at night.”

“I know,” Bucky says, and Clint sees his eyes tighten minutely, frown taking on a new tone. “The precincts are trained to be most responsive at night in this part of town.”

As Sam leaves the room, Bruce takes his place, and the six of them stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the scene outside. Both trucks start up, exhaust swirling up into the air as they idle.

“Cops better come fast, looks like they’re about to leave,” Natasha remarks, her phone in her hand, open to the camera app. She snaps a few pictures. She’s always got a part of her mind on standby for case work, ready to gather evidence.

“Maybe it’s better that way,” Bucky says, and Steve sighs, shaking his head.

“Hard to argue that these guys are doing a good thing, Buck,” he says. “I know the police force in this area is a little militant, but I think the general population would agree that it would be okay for cops to stop these guys.”

Bucky doesn’t respond.

They watch together as most of the people who had been loading things clamber into the back of the trucks.

Suddenly, a figure in business casual, slacks bright blue and red tie sharp, bursts out of the door the group had been hustling through. The difference in her attire is made all the more stark in its contrast to the all black worn by the rest of the crew. She’s shouting at the people still on the loading dock. Clint strains, but can’t make out what she’s saying. Her arms gesticulate wildly, and when no-one responds, she breaks into a sprint, running across the lot.

Clint watches in disbelief as one of the men raises his gun after her. He’s not about to—

The crack of the gun is loud enough that Clint feels it in his bones.

She falls.

Wanda gasps.

“Fuck,” Bucky and Steve say in sync.

Natasha switches her camera app to video mode, and presses record.

Bruce looks green.

“Did that just happen?”

Clint’s question goes unanswered as more sharply dressed people emerge from the building in a panic. This time, the guards seem to understand that the situation is out of their control, and they rush towards the trucks. The—what would they be, Clint wonders, civilians?—dart into the darkness, scattering like mice in every direction.

“Should we do something?” Wanda asks in a small voice, both palms pressed against the glass.

“No, none of us are prepared to handle whatever this is,” Steve says, his mouth twisting. “Sam’s alerting the authorities, we’re not armed, and we have no intel about the situation.”

“There’s nothing we can do to help?” Clint asks. “What about that woman? Do you think she’s alive? Would it make a difference if we helped her?”

“No,” Bucky replies. “No, it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Are you sure?” Clint is hesitant to let this go. It’s been years since he’s seen someone die, and he hadn’t been able to save them then, either.

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” Bucky repeats.

Clint wrinkles his nose skeptically, but acquiesces to what he’s beginning to think is Bucky’s area of expertise. In front of them, the door slams open one more time, and another person emerges, stumbling forward. They have their hands on their knees, coughing. Clint sees them raise their head, arms coming up to push the air away from them sloppily. It’s not sign, but it’s a clear gesture for everyone to get away. He thinks about asking the others what they’re saying, but figures their body language is saying the same thing their words would. _Get away, leave, get back, go!_

“This is weird,” Bucky says, eyes narrow, “I’m not sure what—“

There’s a boom, low and roaring, reverberating up through their feet.

The panels of the window shake, and Clint feels a pop in his hearing aids before the lights above them crack, sparks shooting down.

“What—” Clint gets out.

“Steve, I—” Bucky says.

There’s a flash, blinding blue, and in an instant, Clint is propelled through the air, flying backwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the protocols I use in this fic are real things, and they come from School Reform Initiative. While they're created for a classroom setting, they’re good for all sorts of organizations/groups who want to encourage critical thinking, engagement, connection, and reflection. Chapter one included a [Microlab.](https://schoolreforminitiative.org/doc/microlabs.pdf)
> 
> also, [tumblr!](https://noxnthea.tumblr.com/)
> 
> this is the first longfic I've ever planned and posted, so I'd love any and all feedback you want to give me :)


	2. Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey you know how Steve doesn’t know how to stand down when he sees injustice?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on out we got some long chapters heading your way! 
> 
> CW: this is the only chapter that I think has any possible triggers, though they’re really very light. Minor homophobic comments made by unnamed character to another unnamed character, description of a civilian casualty. Please let me know if you think I should change this warning in any way.

When Bucky comes to, it’s to a steady drip from a pipe overhead splashing on his face. He sits up with a gasp, mind racing, shoulder throbbing. All around him the lights in the room are flickering, some out completely. It looks like the sprinkler system has gone off, and what’s dripping on him is the remnants of the response to a fire. The tables and chairs from their session are scattered around the room, on their sides, most broken. Pieces of glass and ceiling tiles litter the ground in between, and dust is rising from the floor, bits of detritus from different items mixing to make an asthmatic’s nightmare. Cold air comes in through busted windows and he can hear sirens approaching, their piercing wail familiar and unwelcome. 

He’s still in the room where the session had been going on, but he doesn’t immediately see everyone. To his left, back against the wall alongside him are Barton and Natasha. Barton’s crouched over where she’s propped up against the wall and Bucky can see their hands flicking quickly. From Bucky’s cursory glance, neither look injured, if winded and shocked. He stands, hand bracing him against the wall. He does a quick evaluation of his own status and finds nothing to report. He’d have assumed that being flung across the room and slammed into a wall would’ve left him with some aches at the very least, but he doesn’t feel anything. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. When his arm had been shot, he’d gotten all the way back to base before his body kicked itself out of flight mode and the true pain and panic came pouring in. 

On the other side of the room by the blown out window where they had been standing, Bucky sees Bruce lying unconscious. There’s a weird pattern in the debris around him, a wide outline free from glass or rubble circling him. Bucky starts to move towards him, when he stumbles as another blast, this one significantly smaller than the one that had thrown him, flashes red through the doorway. 

He looks up and makes eye contact with Barton and Natasha. The pair look back at each other and Natasha’s head tilts as her hands move quickly, pointing at Barton, then Bruce, then making a thumbs up with her right hand, moving it up off the flat palm of her left. 

Barton nods, then turns to Bucky. “I’ll check on Bruce, you go see what that was about?” 

Bucky responds with a terse nod and turns through the doorway. As he steps out, he finds Wanda curled in a ball on the ground in the hallway, pieces of chairs and tables from the room scattered around her. 

“Are you okay? What happened?” Bucky asks, moving down besides her. 

“I don’t know, there was stuff all around me, and then this energy, I don’t know, wave, came.” Wanda’s words fall out quickly, her accent thick in her fear. “I don’t know what happened.” 

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, well aware that saying so is likely a lie. “You’re fine, you’re okay.” 

He gives her a once over, seeing only a few small scratches on her arms, though she looks like she was caught in the sprinkler system too. The scratches look worse than they would be otherwise, he thinks, water making blood thin so that it runs down dramatically. “Can I help you up?” 

She nods and he puts his arm under one of her shoulders. Expecting a strain on his back, he’s surprised as he lifts her effortlessly. Right, the adrenaline. 

Scanning the hallway, he walks them down towards the entrance of the building. Only a few steps later he hears crashes, punctuated by short, loud exhales. 

“Are you good to stand?” Bucky asks Wanda, looking down at her under his arm. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, fine,” Wanda replies shakily, her tone belying the true state of her mind. 

He leans her against the wall of the hallway next to a cork board weighed heavy by motivational posters. _Keep your chin up_ , urges a puppy in a polka dot hat, while a cat tells Bucky to _hang in there_ from where it dangles on a branch. Its paw waves as Wanda settles beside it, air making the poster’s loose corner flap. 

Bucky turns down the next hallway and immediately spots the source of the noise. Steve is opening the door to an office, and there’s what looks like pieces of the ceiling and a few tables thrown behind him. His hands are bloody from his venture to get to the door and Bucky wonders if it’s sweat or water that has plastered his blonde hair to his forehead and neck. 

Sam steps out of the office, arms raising to clap Steve on the shoulders. Of course, Bucky thinks, Steve was on a mission to rescue someone and didn’t pause to wrap his hands or take other precautions. Typical. He thinks of helping Wanda out and his desire to check on Bruce, and guesses he doesn’t really have much of a leg to stand on. 

“You good?” Steve asks Sam.

“Yeah, all good, man,” Sam replies, gaze running over Steve. “Are you?” 

“Yeah, are you?” Bucky echoes, stepping up to them both. He looks pointedly at Steve’s hands. 

“Oh,” Steve says, eyebrows raising as he takes in the scrapes on his knuckles. “I didn’t realize this had happened. It’s fine.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve’s self-sacrificial nature.“I think everyone else is okay, too. I’ve got Wanda just up the hall, and Barton and Natasha were fine back in the room. When I left, Barton was about to check on Bruce. He’s the only one still out.” 

Steve nods.“Good. I’ll go back and check on them. Sam, you go with Bucky and Wanda. Buck, you take them outside?” 

“Will do,” Bucky confirms the orders, and jerks his head at Sam. “You’re good to follow?” 

“Yeah, fine, I think I missed whatever it was because I was in my office, I was just trapped in there. Steve must’ve heard my banging to get out,” Sam says, shooting a grateful smile at the tall blonde man. 

“I did,” Steve confirms, a flash of confusion flickering onto his face, “from all the way in the other room.” 

“Thanks,” Sam says gratefully before turning all business. “I had just hung up with the police when the boom hit, then the line was down after. They should be here soon.” 

“Let’s go then,” Bucky says, motioning for Sam to follow him. They gather Wanda from the hallway and head back towards the entrance. They arrive without incident, but when they get to the door, Bucky tells Wanda and Sam to wait. 

He opens the door a sliver, looking out into the street. He can’t see any structural damage, and thinks that their line of buildings must’ve acted as a shield for the rest of the street. Theirs was the closest to the blast site, presuming it had come from the warehouse directly behind them. A few car alarms are blaring, and there are several people milling about, holding phones to their ears, in their hands, or out in front of them. Bucky searches, but doesn’t see anyone he recognizes from the loading bay. 

He brings his head back inside and tells the two waiting, “Let’s go. I think we’re good out here.” 

They emerge into the deep darkness of seven pm on a night in November and Bucky ushers them down the steps to the sidewalk. Wanda is hunched in on herself, arms wrapped tightly around her body. Sam looks ready to go check on the other people in the street, but Bucky stops him with his hand. 

“Will you stay with her?” he asks, nodding at Wanda. “As soon as Steve is out, we’re gonna beat it. I don’t want to be here when the cops show up.” 

Logically, he knows that the NYPD is a different entity entirely than the United States Army, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s back in Afghanistan when he hears the chink of metal on plastic and watches the militaristic way they assume authority in all situations. 

Sam nods, focusing his attention back on Wanda. “Sure, man. As an employee, I should probably be here anyway to report.” 

Sam doesn’t know everything, but he does know that Bucky and Steve are former military, and that's why they’re in therapy. They haven’t shared their whole story, not with it being only the second session, and it cut short at that, but Sam does know that they’re both experiencing a lot of guilt and shame, and that Bucky needs to—what is it Steve says—come to terms with how his past doesn’t define his future. Sam doesn’t mind then, Bucky ducking out early. He’s almost grateful for it, especially since he doesn’t read any pity in Sam’s eyes. 

Barton and Natasha emerge next, supporting a stumbling Bruce between them. They carefully walk down the stairs and gently seat Bruce on the bottom step. Barton straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. His hoodie is dirty, dusty stripes marked across the damp purple fabric.

“He’s good, just dizzy,” he tells the waiting trio. “He should probably stay here and get checked out by the paramedics.” 

“Not you?” Sam asks, concerned. 

“Nah, I’m good. I guess I missed hitting anything when that shit happened, I’m fine,” Barton responds with a shrug. “I mean, I’m lucky.” 

The door to the building opens again and Steve walks out, wrapping fabric around his hands. 

“Did a quick sweep, didn’t see anyone else inside,” he says, stopping in front of them. Closer, Bucky can make out floral print on the fabric, and realizes it looks like the curtains from the windows in the therapy room. Steve must have stayed behind after sending the others out. 

“Do you want to get checked out by paramedics?” Sam asks, glancing at the fabric being wound around Steve’s hands. 

“Not necessary.” Steve’s response is curt, but he tempers it with a smile. “This really isn’t a big deal.” 

“If you’re sure,” Sam says, looking unconvinced. “You and Barnes ready to head out then?” 

Steve looks torn and Bucky narrows his eyes. He can tell that Steve feels obligated to stay behind and take care of everyone, no matter how little he actually wants to be there. It’d been a trait that had helped patch Bucky up over the years, and one that earned him a mother-hen title in their company. “They’re fine, Steve. They don’t need us. The police will be here soon; they  _ really _ don’t need us here.” 

“That’s true,” Natasha speaks up, holding her phone out where they can all see it. “I’ve got the evidence of what we saw here and they don’t need to take statements from all of us.” 

Bucky can see Steve’s resolve weakening, then finally leaving as Barton adds, “Yeah, don’t worry about it. We’ll stick around to make sure these guys are okay.” 

Barton sits down on the step next to Bruce and motions for Sam to guide Wanda to his other side. She goes willingly and he pulls her close, tucking her under his shoulder. His hand runs up and down her arm, warmth in the chill night, before looking up at Steve and giving a reassuring smile. Oh yeah, Bucky remembers, at Barton’s at his best when he’s helping others. 

Bucky turns to Steve. “See, they’re fine. Let’s  _ go _ .” 

“Alright, alright. You guys stay safe,” Steve says to the people on the steps, then turns to Sam, “We’ll check in tomorrow.” 

As Sam agrees, Bucky starts to move off down the street towards the subway. They’ve only got a few stops to get through, but the thirty minutes it’ll take before they arrive at their apartment already feel like a battle to overcome. 

* * *

There is warm, wet breathing in his face, and Clint is sure that he’s going to suffocate. Groaning, he squeezes open an eye, and heaves his arm around to shove Lucky off the bed. “Could you not wait further away from me?” he asks, voice gruff with sleep. 

Lucky’s tongue lolls out of his mouth and his head tilts at Clint’s words. His tail wags in a steady rhythm, a free dusting service for the floor behind him. Clint sighs and sits up with the blankets pooling around around his waist, puts his head in his hands. Man, last night was a trip. He and Natasha hadn’t gotten home until after midnight, having stayed with Sam to run through their experiences with the police. They’d talked to the first responders initially, then again with a pair of official looking suits. Natasha had shown both groups the photos and video she’d captured on her phone, and the second pair had confiscated it, stating that a replacement phone would come her way in the mail soon. Natasha, well-versed in advising her clients to not argue with law enforcement, had given up her phone without protest. It wasn’t until they were back at the apartment that she’d looked at Clint with a glint in her eye and told him that she’d backed up all of the footage from the night onto two different Cloud accounts. He wasn’t exactly surprised.

After stumbling through a lackadaisical shower, Clint had crashed into bed, out to the world in less than a minute. 

He releases his head from his hands and looks at Lucky, whose happy face is now resting on the edge of the bed, single eye wide and beguiling. He loves the damn dog more than just about anything, but also, sleeping in on the few days he doesn’t have one of his other jobs before the youth center is nice. “Alright, I’m up, I’m up, you big lug.” 

Clint swings his legs off the other side of the bed and meanders out of his room and into the kitchen. There’s a half-empty pot of coffee at the machine and he approaches without pause, drinking straight from it. It’s cold, which tells him Natasha likely left hours before. He rubs his eyes, slurps, and stares blearily at the clock on the oven, which blinks  _ 12:32  _ at him. The coffee pot drifts too high as his brain tries to work out what those numbers imply for him and precious black liquid splashes out of the lid and down his shirt. 

“Aw, coffee, no,” Clint sighs towards the puddle growing at his feet. He reaches his hand over his shoulder to pull off his shirt and kneels down to wipe off the ground. He shoves Lucky away with his other arm, who’d come to investigate a potential offering. “Sorry bud, we can share a lot of things, but caffeine ain’t one of them.” 

He stands and looks back at the clock. Slightly more awake, he mutters out a curse, chugs the rest of the coffee, and leaves the kitchen. 

“Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, boy,” he tells Lucky, walking quickly into his room. He bunches up his shirt and launches it across the room towards the laundry basket, where it lands dead center, a contrast to the other pieces of clothing sprawling around it. He grabs another shirt off the ground, this one a graphic tee, and after a quick inhale to check odor, and a cursory glance to check for stains, pulls it over his head. Next to it are his jeans from the night before, which he quickly decides against based on how they’re currently covered with dirt and smell like they’ve begun to mildew from the sprinklers. Clint probably should’ve put them in the washer last night. 

He roots around the room until he finds his other pair of jeans, then drags them on, hopping on one foot, then the other as he makes his way towards his bed at the same time. He grabs his hearing aids from the side table where he’d left them the night before and fits them over his ears. 

Snagging two unmatched socks from where they actually happened to be in the sock drawer for once, he slips on his shoes and tells Lucky to grab his leash. Lucky dashes off, meeting him at the door to the apartment with his leash in his mouth a few seconds later, entire body vibrating with excitement. 

“We’re going, we’re going!” Clint tells him. He feels a little bad at making Lucky wait so long to go out and is thankful that Simone had been willing to take him out for his night walk when they got held up last night. He’s lucky to have the support network he does, otherwise he’d be nowhere near fit to take care of a dog. Simone watches Lucky when Clint’s out unexpectedly, and Clint’s worked out a sort of fostering system with Kate, one of the kids from the center. She’s been trying to convince her dad to let her get her own dog for years, so she takes Lucky a couple weeks in every month.

Stepping into the hallway, Clint is thrown off balance as he steps on a skateboard shooting by. Headed sideways, his hand comes down to sweep the floor, and he spins on his back foot, managing to right himself in an instant, arms splayed comically wide in the air. Lucky’s leash is still somehow in his hand. Aimee, the teen from the floor above, has her hands over her mouth, looking guilty from where she stands at the base of the stairs. “I’m so sorry, Clint, it just got away from me!” 

“It’s fine,” Clint assures her while his heart pounds out a contradictory staccato beat high in his throat. “No harm done, I’m fine.” 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, moving past him to grab the skateboard. “I would feel so bad if you had fallen over. Or what if that had happened to someone clumsy, instead of you? That would have been so bad.” 

Clint thinks that this is probably the first time in his entire life anyone has ever thought he wasn’t clumsy. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “Just be more careful next time.” 

He locks up the apartment and heads down stairs. He’s got 10 minutes to get Lucky to do his business before he needs to leave to make it to the youth center on time. 

On the way back in, he trips on the first step up and gives himself a friction burn grabbing the stair bannister. 

* * *

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table in sweats when Steve gets back to the apartment from his morning run. His eyes are bright as he puts his keys down on the table before yanking a chair back, spinning it around before sitting in front of Bucky. Bucky squints at him over his coffee mug, 100% not awake enough for Steve’s energy. 

“Aw man, Buck, I felt so good this morning on my run,” Steve says energetically. “I made a new PR for distance and speed, and you know what?” 

Bucky doesn’t know, and blinks at Steve to convey as much. 

“I think I probably could’ve gone faster, and maybe longer, too,” Steve continues, his energy not in the least bit offended by Bucky’s blinking. 

Bucky isn’t a morning person. 

“It was amazing, really. I swear, I’ve never felt like this before. Incredible!” Steve shoots out of his seat and goes to the refrigerator. 

Steve  _ is _ a morning person. 

“You really should come out with me sometime.” Steve pauses, not for a response, he knows better than that, but to consider. “Maybe you can meet me at the end of a run, when I’m more tired.” He goes back to the fridge, sticking his head inside and thrumming his fingers along the top of the door. “I am  _ starving. _ ” 

Bucky watches as Steve stacks several items from the fridge in his arms, balancing them high as he turns towards the counter. They tip precariously and Steve moves with them, kicking out a leg to shut the door of the refrigerator. 

The fridge tips over with a crash. 

Bucky stares, and the pile of food clatters on the counter as it drops from Steve’s suddenly limp hands. A package of ham slides off and lands on the ground. 

“What the fuck, Steve?” 

Steve looks at the fridge, where a thin green liquid has begun to seep out in a puddle. He looks down at his foot, then back at the fridge, then over to Bucky. His eyes are wide. 

“I don’t—what—shit—the hell, Bucky?” 

Bucky stands up and sets his coffee mug on the table. He walks over to the fridge and squats down, putting his hand under it. With an exhale, he lifts, and the fridge tilts back up. Expecting more resistance, he stumbles forward, the fridge knocking side to side on its feet. 

Steve is watching him, a confused expression on his face. Bucky usually gets a kick out of Steve’s confusion, but right now he’s worried that his own expression mirrors Steve’s. 

“What happened to our refrigerator?” Steve asks, bringing his hands up to run them through his hair anxiously. 

“Is it the fridge?” Bucky asks, opening one of the doors. By some miracle, it’s still plugged into the wall and things seem to be functioning fine. Meal prep containers are toppled over, a pickle jar is cracked and leaking, and overall it looks a little like a small scale food fight has taken place inside. They’ll just need to do some cleaning. Well, Steve will. 

“If it’s not the fridge, what is it?” Steve asks, bottom lip worrying between his teeth. 

“I don’t—“ Bucky stops, suddenly noticing Steve’s hands. Steve’s golden, uninjured, completely normal hands. “Steve. Look at your hands.” 

Steve does, turning them over to examine the backs, then his palms. “What? What’s wrong with them?”

“It’s not that something’s wrong, it’s that there isn’t anything wrong with them,” Bucky says, moving over towards him. He takes one of Steve’s hands in his and tilts it into the light coming in through the kitchen window. “Last night these were all scraped up from when you cleared the door to Sam’s office.” 

Steve draws in a sharp breath. “Shit.” 

Bucky looks up at him, meeting his friend’s eyes. “What the  _ fuck _ , Steve?” 

* * *

Clint slides through the doors of the youth center two and a half minutes before the students are set to arrive, exactly thirteen and a half minutes late to work. Tugging his backpack over his shoulder, he grins at Nancy behind the front desk as she says, “One of these days, Clint, you’ll walk in here not out of breath.” 

“Don’t count on it,” Clint retorts, giving her a sloppy salute as he heads towards the rec room. She shakes her head ruefully and he hears her call out as he walks down the hall. 

“For someone who cares so much about these kids, you’d think you’d care enough to be on time!” 

That was a low blow, Clint thinks to himself. He’s just time-management challenged, is all. It makes him more human when he’s working with the kids, less like a scary adult who they can’t identify with. He passes his bosses office and sees her lips tighten towards him, though she doesn’t approach to reprimand him, kept captive by the phone at her ear. He sends her a self-deprecating grin, signs  _ sorry _ on his chest and moves on, ears burning. Who was he kidding, the kids know he’s a mess just like his coworkers do. His screw-ups just don’t affect them all that much. Clint’s never done anything truly terrible that would hurt them, like forgetting an important responsibility or actually being late enough to be considered disrespectful of their time. Clint loathes to think of the day when he really lets one of them down, and would do just about anything to prevent that from happening. He’d had too many adults let him down when he was a kid to do the same to any of his. 

Clint enters the rec room and sees that Asha has left some of the equipment out from the morning’s youth youth session. It’s technically called something like ‘Early Child Motor Skills Development’, but Clint gets a kick out of calling it youth youth. He can’t quite remember why he started calling it that, but it annoys his boss and entertains his kids, so he keeps doing it. There are a few basketballs scattered across the court on the far side of the room, several beanbags strewn in a circle, and some hula hoops and cones left in a corner with the Hacky sacks. He walks over to the lounge area and plugs in the air hockey machine next to the foosball table. These are more recent acquisitions, voted on by the after-school crew when the year’s annual equipment stipend came in from the grant department. The kids had set up their own care and maintenance schedule for them, cautious with their favorites after someone had lost the first air hockey puck within a week and Clint made them wait a month before he replaced it. It’s not like he’s teaching them math or English or anything important, but his kids know damn well to not waste community resources. 

Glancing at the black and white clock on the wall, squeezed tight between a Yankees poster and a collage of little kid artwork, he mutters a quick curse—his last one before the kids get there, honest— and goes to get out the teens and up equipment from the locked closet. He pulls out the darts for the dart board, some of the larger sized basketballs, and the T.V. remote. He tosses the basketballs over his shoulder out of the closet, and gathers the other items into his hands. When he comes out, he notices that all four of the basketballs have come to a stop directly at center court. 

Weird, he thinks, but then, he’s still not sure last night wasn’t a dream, so maybe he’s still asleep. 

“Mr. Barton! You will not  _ believe _ what happened today in Decathlon!” Peter’s excited voice is the first Clint hears, ever over-polite, ever excessively enthusiastic. Behind him, Miles, Eli, and Nate trail in. Kate and America follow shortly after with their heads together, laughing about something that they clearly don’t want the boys to hear. More will show up later as schools let out across Queens and north Brooklyn, the center pulling kids from all around its location at the crosspoint of Williamsburg, Bushwick, and Bed-Stuy. 

Clint jerks his head up in greeting. “What, did M.J. look at you for too long? Or, no, did she acknowledge your existence?” 

Miles bursts out laughing as Peter pinks, stuttering out a, “No, Mr. Barton, come  _ on _ , really?” 

Clint knows that this is safe teasing territory. Some kids get really defensive when it comes to talking about their crushes, but Peter is physically incapable of keeping a secret, and the whole after school crew had known about his crush on M.J. within a week of him joining Academic Decathlon this year. Clint’s developed a good relationship with the kid, with most of them, and knows by this point that jokes about crushes, school, and his goody-two-shoes attitude are all in the green zone. Clint also knows which topics to avoid addressing in jest, as well as how to read Peter’s mood when he’s getting down about things. 

“I don’t know man, pretty sure yesterday you showed up excited about something you said was about Decathlon, and it ended up being about M.J. then,” Clint points out, heading towards them. 

“And then on Monday you brought up M.J.” Kate says, nudging America. 

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure you mentioned her, what was it, Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-and-Friday of last week, too.” America adds, nudging Kate back. 

“ _ No _ , Mr. Barton, it has nothing to do with M.J.,” Peter protests dramatically, dropping into one of the bean bags. Kate and America sit down next to him and he pointedly ignores them. “Mr. Harrington just announced the travel team for our first competition in January and I’m on the list.” 

‘That’s great, Peter.” Clint smiles at him. “What are you going to do to celebrate?” 

“Celebrate?” Peter asks incredulously. “I don’t know about celebrate, more like, prepare. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited, but no way am I going to screw this up. I’m going to need to study so much!” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of anyone,” Kate says, wiggling her eyebrows at the boy in the beanbag chair across from her. 

“Oh my god, would you get off it? You guys are the worst!” Peter exclaims, throwing a hand over his eyes and slumping back in the bean bag chair. 

Kate looks at Clint, who nods at her in approval. She extends her hand and he bumps her fist. This is why she is the best, though how she watches Lucky some weeks when Clint’s side jobs are too hectic is pretty sweet, too.

Clint looks down at his empty wrist, taps his nonexistent watch with a finger, then meets Kate’s eyes with a smirk.“A minute in, and we’ve successfully embarrassed Parker. That might be a new record.” 

“The  _ worst! _ ” Peter’s groan is muffled, and the three surrounding him chuckle. Clint drops the T.V. remote next to America and heads over to where the rest of the kids are settling in by the foosball machine. 

Miles and Nate are already engaged in a heated battle, hands spinning the poles viciously. Clint takes the darts to the dart board, pressing them into the outer ring. Nancy had once tried to tell Clint that the darts could be used as a weapon and therefore shouldn’t be kept accessible by ‘underprivileged’ teens, but Clint had rolled his eyes and launched into a rant about ageist assumptions and the alignment between repetitive, fine motor skills, concentration-based sports, and adolescent brain development, and Nancy had quickly shut up. It had been quite the moment, and four years later, the dart board is still in action.

“Hey Clint,” Eli calls from over on the basketball court, “wanna shoot around some?” 

Clint checks the clock on the wall again. The next wave of kids isn’t set to arrive for another 10 minutes, though he’ll have to beg off when they do. Gwen will be there, after telling him Friday that she would be arriving with plans for their upcoming food drive this afternoon. “Yeah man, of course.” 

He walks over as Eli underhands a ball to him. Bouncing it a couple times, he jokingly dodges from side to side around invisible defenders, does a full 360, and shoots wildly without looking at the basket, damn near praying for it to land. The ball hits the backboard and drops in. 

“Alright, old man,” Eli laughs as he catches the ball underneath the hoop. “Guess you’ve decided to show up today.” 

“I guess,” Clint says, a chuckle covering the unease he starts to feel creeping down his spine.

Eli and Clint alternate making shots, and on his sixth consecutive basket, Clint can no longer deny that something is up. “Here,” he offers, “I’ll be your rebound. I don’t want to embarrass you anymore than I already have.” 

Eli smirks at that and doesn’t complain about the free practice, leaving Clint to his own thoughts. What was going on? He’d never been bad at sports, but he isn’t exactly the most graceful of people. It’s been years since he’d trained at anything requiring aim, ever since he quit the circus and put down his bow for good, resolving to acclimate into normal society where being a worthwhile use of space had nothing to do with one’s ability to hit a target with a flaming arrow. 

“Clint! I have PLANS for you!” Gwen’s voice cuts through Clint’s thoughts, and he almost misses the ball Eli tosses at him. He does catch it, though, despite the distraction and the fact that he wasn’t even looking at it. Again, weird. He tosses it back to Eli with a smile as a few of Gwen’s classmates head over, and allows himself to be pulled into her furiously excited planning. 

That evening when the kids leave, Clint walks around the room to gather up equipment. He kicks all of the basketballs towards the closet, then pauses on the last one. Surely he’d been imagining it earlier. He picks the ball up, turning his back to the goal. Closing his eyes, he throws it over his shoulder, focusing intentionally on the trajectory he can picture between himself and the basket. 

The faint  _ swish _ of the net makes him wince. 

“What is happening?” he asks the empty room, heading to the corner with the game tables to test what is rapidly becoming a weird-ass hypothesis. 

Clint reaches the dart board, picking up the set with shaking fingers. He steps back to the throw line and takes careful aim. The first dart flies true, sinking deep into the middle of the bullseye. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, and walks to the far side of the room, over a hundred feet away. As he walks, he shakes his head. “There’s no way. There’s just no way.” 

He reaches the far wall, and he’s far enough away that he probably shouldn’t be able to make the numbers out along the rim of the board like he can. He releases, watching in disbelief as the dart hits directly beside the first, making it tilt to the side. Heart rate increasing, he quickly sends the remaining darts towards the target with focused intent, one after the other. In the end, all six cluster tightly together in the bullseye. 

Stunned, he walks up to the wall. As he approaches, the red flight of one dart falls off, flipping through the air to land on the ground. A bristle of red and black taunts him. 

Clint’s always had good aim—years of practice when he was running around after his brother in the circus and his brief stint as a headliner in purple sequined spandex had required meticulous training to develop that aim, but it’s been a decade since he’s attempted anything like this. And even at his peak, 17 years old with a crowd at his back and a hard to impress Swordsman waiting in the wings, he’d never been this good. 

“What the fuck, Clint?” he whispers. He picks up his phone to call Natasha. 

* * *

Bucky glares into the bathroom mirror. Steve is sitting in the living room, waiting for Bucky to take his shower before he does so they can leave the apartment. Since being discharged from the army and his stay in the hospital, Bucky doesn’t like taking showers. He hates looking at his body, hates how vulnerable he feels navigating what should be simple things like washing his hair or cleaning his body, both made just annoying enough with the loss of his arm to severely aggravate him. He’s bothered a lot by what he can and can’t do anymore, but it’s the daily tasks like showering that really get to him. 

Today, he’s even more hesitant than normal to take a shower. He thinks about the night before and wonders if he really didn’t sustain any injuries, or if he just didn’t notice them before they, what? Healed? 

His reflection glares back at him, which he finds fitting. No one is ever as mad at him as he thinks they should be, but at least he can count on his reflection to do the job right. Bucky makes eye contact with himself and thinks about the man in the mirror. He hates him, a little. He’s done some real stupid shit over the years, and the deformed body, so different from what it looked like before the incident, even his face a parody of the young brightness it used to have, is fair justice. His eyes drift down to the stump where his arm used to be and he grimaces. He turns away from the mirror, disgusted. 

Bucky takes off his pants as quickly as he can and gets into the shower before starting it. The water, when it hits his head, is cold, and he revels in the discomfort for the few moments it takes to warm up. His eyes close beneath the stream, and he thinks about what had happened in the kitchen. 

Steve is stronger than before, and so is Bucky. Steve had developed some sort of ability to heal himself overnight, if his unmarred knuckles weren’t lying to them. Maybe Bucky had, too. He lets out derisive snort and opens his eyes under the water, reaching for the shampoo. What a cruel twist of fate the world would be offering them if Steve and Bucky, two former soldiers, only months out of a corrupt system, had somehow developed super strength and healing abilities. They don’t deserve that, not after they had caused so much injury to people, using their inherent social power to weaken others. It’d be real fucked up, Bucky thinks, if he was granted the ability to heal himself when he had caused people to bleed out in the streets because of his unwillingness to question orders. 

He ducks his head back beneath the water, which has edged close to the point of scalding, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. As his eyes close to protect themselves from the suds, he thinks about the night when he and Steve were finally both out of the army. Bucky had received his honorable discharge while waylaid in the hospital, but Steve had had to fight for months for his conscientious objection case to go through. The army made it incredibly difficult to get out of your four years of contract, but Steve is nothing if not stubborn, and had spent nearly every waking moment of his leave to visit Bucky compiling a convincing argument that neither the chaplain, psychiatrist, nor investigating officer could manipulate against him. 

Bucky remembers the smell of blood in the air, a pain emanating up from his arm, growing steadily stronger. He remembers hearing Steve over the radio, shouting at their commanding officer about the unarmed woman Bucky’s partner had shot when they entered the apartment. He remembers the sick feeling in his gut he’d felt when he looked down at his arm, torn apart by the spray that had blasted through it from the barrel of the outdated shotgun. He remembers the shocked expression of the child who had dropped the weapon when she ran in, the gun clattering to the ground and accidentally discharging. He remembers the fear in her eyes and the sounds wrenched out of her father, the man who’d been mistakenly reported by locals as having possible ties to the weapons group they were here surveilling, laying on the ground behind her, his hands stretched out towards the woman’s body, weeping.

Bucky’s eyes snap open and he leans down to turn the shower off, breath tight in his chest. His hair falls forward, slick strands dripping around his face. He’s torn. Sometimes he’d do anything to have that scene erased from his mind; other times, he wishes it’d play non stop so he could never escape the guilt. 

He climbs out of the shower and grabs a towel from the rack. He can’t wrap it around his body anymore. 

He runs the towel over his body then bends over to awkwardly wrap it around his hair. He straightens and the wrap he’d put his hair in lists slowly to the side, then unravels. He sighs and watches the towel tumble to the ground. The man in the mirror raises an eyebrow at him as though to say ‘ _ that’s what you get’. _ Bucky turns the light off.

* * *

Natasha is already home when Clint arrives, having sent him a terse,  _ Home. Now. _ reply to the email he’d sent on his way home from work once he remembered she didn’t have her phone and thus couldn’t listen to the frantic voicemail he’d left while still in the rec center. He doesn’t realize she’s there until he’s already thrown his keys to the counter and is standing in front of the refrigerator, internally bemoaning the distinct lack of leftover pizza. 

“Clint,” she murmurs from directly beside him. 

“Shit!” Clint yells, flailing backwards. He bumps into the counter and when his hand comes forward, he realizes he’s tightly clutching a paring knife from the knife block. Huh. He stares at it, then at her. She watches back, seemingly unconcerned with the weapon in his hands. 

“Okay, I know I don’t always hear things if I have my aids out, or if it’s morning and I haven’t had coffee, but Nat, I had no idea you were even in the room,” Clint says, setting the knife down behind him, carefully releasing one finger at a time. He pats its handle for good measure, then turns to face her. 

“I’ve been doing it all day,” Natasha confesses, the faintest hint of worry on her face. She looks about as ruffled as ever, which is to say, a single strand of scarlet hair is out of her otherwise perfect power ponytail. “I startled one of the paralegals into dropping the coffee order all over the latest subpoena and terrified a client so bad I thought he was definitely going to request a transfer. You know what the people I defend are like.” 

Clint nods. She defends a lot of people who might be described by some as jumpy, or paranoid. They also might be described by others as sufficiently concerned for legitimate threats from people they’ve harmed before. Just depends how you look at it, Clint supposes. 

“I’m also really…” she pauses, thinking of the right word, “agile.” 

Clint cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?” 

Natasha sighs, then nods towards the knife on the counter behind him. “Throw that at me.” 

“The knife?” Clint asks, and with a doubting expression, he picks it up, then stops. “Wait, no. With the way things have been going for me today, maybe not the best idea.” 

She quirks her brow at him, and he says, “Don’t move. Door frame, two inches up.” He throws the knife, and it buries itself in the doorframe to Natasha’s right. He’s half a room away, but he bets if he took a ruler to it, the knife would be precisely two inches above the top of Natasha’s head. 

“I see,” she says, letting out a breath. To her credit, she didn’t move a muscle when he threw the knife, and he’s not sure if that’s due to her total lack of fear or complete trust in Clint. He doubts it’s the latter; after everything she’s seen him screw up or trip over through the years, why would she ever trust Clint? 

“Basically, I can hit anything I aim for,” he says, “with almost anything. I think real projectiles might be better, like narrow ones.” 

“I see,” she repeats, and uncrosses her arms. “Well then, take the rest of the knives, and toss them in the air. Don’t aim for anything in particular.” 

He nods, and grabs the rest of the knives from the block. For a moment, he wonders at the ridiculousness of them trying this out with literal knives, but whatever Nat says goes. “At the same time?” 

“Give me a second in between each one,” she decides. 

He tosses first the chef’s knife, then the serrated bread knife, then the four steak knives, one after the other. He’s not aiming exactly, no intent to hit, it’s more like he’s lobbing them in her general direction, intentional arcs high and wide, and Natasha, she—

She’s dancing. In the space of six seconds, Natasha is engaging in the most graceful movement Clint has ever seen. Her hair flashes crimson and lights glint against the metal of the blades as she sways and dips, extending her hands to seamlessly catch five blades. The last steak knife slices down through the air and she performs the smallest side step, flicking her left hand to waist height, the handle of the final knife landing with a  _ clink _ against two others. 

Clint knows his mouth is open. He doesn’t shut it as Natasha bites her bottom lip, raises her eyebrows, and crosses the kitchen to join him by the counter. She doesn’t look at him as she puts the knives back into the block. 

“Yeah, I guess agile is one way to describe that,” Clint says, trying for sarcasm. 

Natasha lets out a small laugh, more a huff of air through her nose than an actual laugh, but Clint sees her eyes crinkle, and knows he’s done right, his single sentence reassuring her. Of what, he’s not sure. 

“It was something from last night,” Natasha says once she’s put all of the knives back. She grips the lip of the counter, index finger tapping.“The blast from the warehouse. I looked over the videos and pictures I took, and my best guess is there was some sort of chemical testing going on that turned south.” 

“All of those people running definitely felt very ‘it’s gonna blow’, now that I think of it,” Clint points out, rubbing at his chin. 

“Exactly,” Natasha agrees. “I feel certain that the other people in group were affected like we were. Maybe not exactly the same,” she concedes, “seeing how what you can do is different from what I can, but affected in some way nonetheless. We need to talk to them.” 

“Alright,” Clint says. “But can we get dinner first? Marcello’s? I feel like we deserve it, with the whole discovering we’ve got super powers thing.” 

“If I let you, you’d think you deserved Marcello’s for waking up in the morning,” Natasha teases, rolling her eyes as she grabs her keys. She leaves the room briefly and comes back tucking a spare phone in her back pocket. It’s probably got everything already downloaded from her old phone. Always prepared, is Natasha Romanov. 

“I mean, you’re not wrong,” Clint replies, following her out the door while wrapping a purple scarf around his neck. “I definitely deserve Marcello’s for waking up  _ this _ morning.” 

* * *

The noise at Do or Dive is comforting, familiar. Glasses clink, and there’s an occasional clack from the pool tables in the back of the bar. Voices swell and ebb, interspersed with a periodic outburst of laughter or boisterous story-telling from a group of intoxicated coworkers. Behind it all is a steady hum of news, sports reporting, and, oddly enough, a baking show, funneling down from the few televisions set high on the walls. Steve had been surprised when Bucky wanted to go here when they were both finally stateside, but Bucky likes it because he can get lost in the noise and get out of his head. 

He’s sitting in one of the few booths, waiting for Steve to come back with their beers. He watches as one guy with a loose tie and wilted hair tips forward, sloshing his pint across the front of another in his group. Bucky waits, curious, to see whether it becomes an argument, or—nope, the one who was spilled on is laughing, mouth wide, hand on thighs, cuffed dress shirt dripping. Apparently that’s the level of intoxication they’d reached already. Bucky thinks about how the bar has only been open 30 minutes, then realizes that he and Steve have spent a few too many days over the past few months at that same level of drunkenness at even earlier hours in the day. To be honest, he’s kind of hoping Steve will encourage that tonight. Bucky suspects he might want to actually  _ talk _ about things though, unfortunately. 

Speaking of the devil, Steve scoots into the booth across from him, two beers in hand. He slides one over, and Bucky reaches over to stop it just as the foamy liquid inside surges towards the top of the rim nearest him. The foam crests along the edge, close to spilling over. “Careful,” he warns Steve. 

“Sorry,” Steve says. “It got away from me faster than I thought it would.” He looks down at his own beer, clasping his hands around it. He stares for a moment, then looks up. “What if I break the glass?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken something at a bar,” Bucky says, shooting for consolatory joking. From Steve’s expression, he’s missed the mark. Bucky lifts the glass to his mouth, takes a sip, and puts it down gingerly before scowling at his action. Damn Steve and his ability to make others take care. “Look, we just need to figure this out. Test things. Treat it like an experiment.” 

“Do you think we should talk to someone? Report it?” Steve asks hesitantly. 

“Hell no,” Bucky says emphatically. “Are you kidding? Who are we going to call, the local precinct? A hospital? There’s no fucking way I want to go through the legal shitshow they’d drag us through. We’d get locked up, experimented on. I know I said treat it like an experiment—but not one that any random ass doctor or psychologist can test on. You couldn’t pay me to trust them.” 

Steve sighs. “You’re right, that was dumb of me to suggest. But jeez, Bucky,” he leans forward, “this is insane. If you weren’t seeing me do these things, and I hadn’t seen you, I’d legitimately think I was losing it. How are you and I supposed to handle something like this?” 

“I have no fucking clue, but I know we’re not going to get a handle on this by letting someone get a handle on us.” Bucky shakes his head and throws back more of his beer. He’s not so gentle when he sets it down this time and a hairline crack runs up the side when it makes contact with the table. He scowls again. 

“Do you think it’s just us?” Steve asks him, hands still grasped around his pint glass. He hasn’t taken a single sip yet. 

“Doubt it,” Bucky responds. “That wouldn’t make sense, though who am I to know what makes sense in this situation? It’d be some sort of cosmic joke for the two of us to suddenly have these,” and here he lets go of his glass to put up quotation marks with his hand, “ _ powers _ , but to not have given them to the actually decent people at group last night.” 

Steve frowns, earnestness thick in the set of his brows. “The people at group aren’t better than you, Bucky.” 

Bucky flattens his eyes.“I am not getting into this right now with you, Steve. Stay focused on the fact that it’s stupid to think that we’re the only ones who can suddenly heal overnight and are strong as fuck.” 

There’s a crash from one of the pool tables and they both whip their heads around to look. Bucky untenses as he sees a beefy guy in a ripped jean jacket rubbing at his forehead, the lamp above the table swaying rapidly from where it had made contact with his face. His pool partner is laughing, head thrown back, eyes shut tight, swaying against his pool cue. 

Bucky turns back to Steve and finds him staring past him towards the bar, or more specifically, at one of the T.V.s. “What?” he asks, craning his neck around. 

“What _is_ that?” Steve asks, and Bucky sees instantly which T.V. he’s looking at. 

Tuned in to CNN, it’s showing central Harlem near the Apollo. The news footage is shaky, clearly amateur, likely someone’s phone. There’s a flash of green, then the camera cuts out. Along the bottom of the screen, the ticker reads ‘ _ Monster in the streets, New Yorkers flee destruction in Harlem _ .’ Another camera starts up, this one from a different angle. There’s a giant…thing? running across the street, slamming over and across cars. A bike swerves around it, its overworked deliveryman going flying over the handlebars. The thing stops, braces, and  _ roars _ at the bike, as though its mere presence is offensive. It grabs the bike with two enormous green hands and lifts it into the air before bringing it crashing down on top of a nearby parked Yellow Cab. Bucky winces as the bike and cab hood crunch together, glass and metal creating a discordant clatter. He sees the deliveryman scramble off out of screen, then the thing bounds away, turning a corner out of sight. 

Steve coughs and Bucky turns to meet his eyes. Steve drains his glass in one go before saying, “Okay, so, bigger things to worry about than us being a little big superhuman right now.” 

Bucky shrugs and finishes off his glass as well. He’s a New Yorker, and has always cared about people a little less than Steve does. “It’s in Harlem,” he says, standing to head to the bar for another round. “Not our problem.” 

There’s space right in front of the bartender, who is standing with a rag and glass in hand, absentmindedly spinning the two together while she watches the news. He knocks on the countertop to get her attention, and throws his thumb back at Steve when she looks at him. “Can we get two more on that guy’s tab?” When she nods, he looks down, then adds, “and can you put them in glasses with handles?” Her eyes flick over to his shoulder, and Bucky physically restrains himself from glaring at her. 

“Sure, of course,” she says, and turns to the tap, setting the rag and glass down on the countertop. 

Bucky puts his back to the bar and turns to survey the room. The same loud group of coworkers is still at the bar to his left, and besides the occupied pool tables, there aren’t many people there that afternoon. Near the grimy hall to the bathroom is a couple holding hands across their booth, matching margarita glasses half-empty. One man with a beanie pulled low across a mess of blonde hair is pushing up round glasses as they slide down his nose while his hipster partner with a wicked clean fade in his kinky black hair gazes so adoringly into his eyes that it makes Bucky’s stomach hurt. Love is so fickle, so temporary. Bucky wonders if the adoring man would still love his partner if glasses guy lost an arm or ruined a little girl’s life or participated in a war that cost the United States billions of dollars and destroyed entire economies and societies overseas. 

“Here you go,” the bartender says, startling Bucky out of his thoughts as she puts two glasses down on the counter. He turns the glasses so that both handles are pointed towards each other, then picks them up. As he heads back towards Steve, he sees the man who’d spilled a drink on his friend earlier stand up and head towards the couple in the booth. Bucky sits down, then reaches out to tap Steve on the arm and get his attention. 

“Incoming potential douchebag, 7:00 o’clock,” he says, jutting his chin towards the booth. 

Steve looks up, eyes assessing the situation right away. They watch together as the drunk guy swaggers towards the couple, who have yet to notice him. He stops directly in front of them, swaying slightly. 

Surprisingly, Bucky can make out his words over the hubbub of the bar as he slurs, asking the two men how they came to be there together that evening. The couple exchanges glances and the man in the beanie tightens his grip on his partners palm before saying calmly, “I took the subway, met him here; he works just a few blocks away.” 

Bucky checks out the bar, and sees the drunk’s friends silent, watching the exchange with expressions that convey expected entertainment. One leans to whisper in another’s ears, and Bucky hears him say, “Aw man, Dan hates people like this, dude absolutely loses his chill during Pride; his wife keeps begging him to go on vacation in June. This’ll be great.” 

As he turns back to the booth, Bucky realizes Steve is standing. He hadn’t even noticed him move. He sees the determination in Steve’s eyes and brings his new beer up to his mouth, foam popping along his upper lip. He figures he might as well get some of his own entertainment out of this; Steve has been known to make some incredible anti-hate speech speeches over the years. 

The drunk guy has raised his voice and is repeating his question about how the couple is there, throwing inflections from word to word. He’s mid sentence, “….and you  _ together _ —“ when Steve arrives, and he stumbles back, throwing a hand out to catch the side of the booth as Steve looms over him. 

“I think they already told you how they got here,” Steve rumbles, crossing his arms across his chest, fists underneath his arms where they emphasize his already impressive biceps. Bucky smirks; Steve is going all in to the intimidation factor today. 

The guy blinks up at him, mouth opening, then closing, before he blurts, “Well they shouldn’t be here!” 

Oof, Bucky thinks, it’s never a good idea to tell Steve what people should and shouldn’t do. 

“Interesting,” Steve says. “That sounds an awful lot like an opinion. Do you know what happened on June 26 th , 2015? What about on June 26 th of 2003? Or December 15th, 1973?” He doesn’t wait for a response, though the guy looks a little incapable of comprehending what Steve’s asking anyway. “Those are all dates where the United States of America laid down laws that stated that these two men have the same rights to be here today as you and me.” 

The guy sways a little more and tugs at his tie. His lips twist and he looks at the couple again, away from Steve’s intense presence. “Well they also have the right to be a little less gay and in everyone’s face about it.” 

Steve’s expression grows more thunderous. “And you, sir, have the right to leave.” 

“What are you, the goddam gay bouncer for gays?” The guy asks, growing brazen, beer bottle waving in the air. “You can’t make me leave.” 

His friends at the bar aren’t grinning anymore, though they look far from worried. Instead, they’re looking something more along the lines of eager. Bucky sees the guy who’d been spilled on nudge the remaining two, then they all stand up. Well. Time for Bucky to move to Steve’s six. 

“You’re right,” Steve says, leaning forward. He’s got at least six inches and 50 pounds on the guy, but in the man’s current state of inebriation, that’s clearly not registering as important. “But I can  _ highly _ suggest that you do.” 

“No, you,” the guy says intelligently, and swings his fist up into Steve’s face. His punch lands along Steve’s jaw, which tightens on impact. A belated second later, the guy crumples to the ground with a sharp cry, cradling his hand to his chest. 

Bucky winces, sighs, and steps behind the guy’s friends as they rush over.

* * *

When they step out in front of the apartment building five stories down, a burly man in an orange tracksuit nearly runs into Natasha as he lumbers in through the door with his head down, hands shoved into pockets, elbows bowed wide. He glares at the both of them and grumbles in a distinctly not-English language, and Natasha shoots back an icy glare of her own as she swerves to the side. Clint glares too, a bit belatedly, as though Nat has ever needed anyone to defend her honor. 

Clint takes a few steps forward before realizing that Natasha’s feet have stalled on the pavement and she’s looking back at the man as he enters the building behind them. “I’m pretty sure he’s mafia,” she tells Clint. 

“Really?” he asks. “Like the mob? That kind of mafia?”

“Yes. He reminds me of a client from last year. Same signet on his right ring finger, I think.” She shakes her head. “And they have equally terrible style choices.” 

“A mobster living in our apartment, no shit,” Clint says wonderingly. He sees red across the street and can make out two other men in similarly horrific tracksuits, illuminated garishly by the glow of a streetlight. One has a thin, balding combover, and the other’s most distinctive feature is the impressive amount of hair spilling from the top of his stained white undershirt, visible due to his unzipped jacket. He nudges Natasha, lifting his hand. “Look. More incredibly distinctive straight-outta-the-nineties studs over there.” 

She turns to where he’s pointing, then slaps his hand down. “Don’t  _ point _ , durak.” They watch as the men lean back against the shopfront, exchanging a cigarette back and forth. A young man comes up to them, sneaking furtive glances over his shoulder as he approaches. Subtle, Clint thinks, then blushes. Natasha would probably describe him the same way. 

The young man reaches into the jacket of his pocket and pulls an envelope out and hands it to the tracksuit man with the combover who takes it, unfolding a piece of paper. The young man is tense, shifting on the balls of his feet, both hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. The tracksuit man whose chest has perhaps stolen his buddy’s hair flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps forward to grind it out under his foot, casually taking a step closer to their visitor. Clint swears he can see the kid gulp. 

The man with the paper finishes reading, then folds it in half once, twice, before saying a single word that Clint can’t quite make out, and ripping the paper in half. Clint’s eyes widen as Chest Hair mobster leans forward to grab the young man by the arm, and Clint risks a quick glance at Natasha, who nods a single confirmation. [ _ Let’s go] _ , she signs, sliding her right palm up and out from under the bottom of her left in a quick motion. 

Clint checks the flow of traffic and dashes forward, Natasha alongside him. They move together in sync, avoiding the front of one cab, then the rear end of a turning city bus. Clint feels a rush adrenaline rising in his veins, and he barks out a laugh into the cold night air. They reach the other side of the street and Clint vaults a blue parked car, thighs skimming the hood as Natasha darts around it. He reaches out his hand and scoops up a plastic fork perched on the edge of a public trash can. With a flick of his wrist, his feet land on the ground and he sends the fork spiraling end over end towards the hand the Chest Hair’s got around the arm of the young man. 

* * *

The belligerent drunk is still lying on the ground with his hand cradled against his chest when the first of his friends tries to take a swing at the back of Steve’s head, only to meet Bucky’s open palm. 

“Nope,” Bucky says, and pushes him back. Arms in tousled suit windmilling wildly, the man stumbles backwards, the back of his legs colliding with a chair behind him. 

Steve turns, looking from the man on the ground to the other three, considering. “Probably not a good idea,” he tells them, settling with his feet shoulder width apart. His arms flex, an intentional intimidation tactic if Bucky’s ever seen one. Bucky eases alongside him and glares. He’s pretty good at that. 

“Cause you and this guy are going to stop us?” One of the two who haven’t yet tried to hit Steve speaks up, giving a condescending glance to Bucky’s shoulder. He’s in a tightly fitting sweater that looks like it probably suited him about 20 years earlier. “I doubt it.” 

Bucky feels Steve’s muscles clench beside him. Ooh buddy, this is dangerous territory, now. 

“I recommend you take your friend and leave,” Steve says, jaw ticking. 

The three guys glance at each other, then launch themselves towards them. The furthest on the right dives forward, heading for Bucky’s waist. Bucky watches, fascinated, as the man seems to proceed in slow motion, movement telegraphed enough for Bucky to easily shift out of the way. As the man passes with his arms closing on air, Bucky brings his hand down on the center of his back, sending him careening towards the ground, the flaps of his suit fluttering as he falls. 

“Huh,” Bucky says. “Cool.” 

* * *

The fork hits the mobster directly in the back of his hand, tines jabbing into the meaty part between thumb and forefinger. With a shriek Clint suspects is several octaves higher than his normal voice, Chest Hair lets go of the young man’s arm, whipping around to see where the fork came from. 

His friend looks up at his yell, heavily jowled face contorting in shocked anger. “Bro, what—“ he gets out, before Clint is there with a fist to his face. 

“Hey man,” he says as the man’s head snaps backwards, combover flopping in the air, “you shouldn’t litter. New York is dirty enough as it is.” 

Natasha glides in on their right, all smooth angles and sharp hands, cracking down at the joint between Chest Hair’s shoulder and neck. He lets out a cough and starts to fall to his knees. As he does, Natasha pivots on her left leg, her right shooting up before her to catch him under the chin. What follows is kind of funny, Clint thinks, glancing over; caught mid-fall, Chest Hair’s head looks like it has hit an invisible trampoline based on how quickly the whiplash jerked it up and back down again. He thumps backwards, sliding down the wall, eyes dazed. The young man scrambles away, tucking tail and dashing down the sidewalk. 

Clint leans over, plucks the fork from the back of Chest Hair’s hand, then straightens. He turns to face Combover mafia man, and twirls the fork between his fingers. “But hey, what’s a little more trash on the streets?” 

He ignores Natasha’s eye roll and steps forward. She never appreciates his humor. 

* * *

As Bucky watches the guy in the suit jacket fall to the ground, both remaining men head towards Steve. The man in the sweater throws an uppercut, which Steve easily deflects with one thick forearm. The other man, dress-shirt still damp from the earlier spill, aims a punch at Steve’s side, whiffling past as Steve takes a step forward, passing both as they continue their forward momentum. He turns around and beckons at the men, face serious. 

“Well, if this is really what you want to do,” Steve says, “I suppose I can oblige a few assholes like yourselves.” 

The man in the sweater lets out a furious noise and lunges forward, fists flailing in the air sloppily. Steve moves backwards one measured step at a time, turning his face and body just enough to avoid each hit. The man pursues him, growing angrier, his swings more desperate. Within seconds, they reach the bartop, Steve’s back up against it. Bucky watches as Steve’s hand moves along the countertop, fingers grasping the lip of a serving tray. The man’s eyes narrow with assumed success in sight and he draws back his elbow for a particularly powerful blow. His fist moves forward, then meets the serving tray Steve throws up between them with a resounding crack. He reels backwards and Steve follows, smacking him over the head with the tray. 

Steve turns and suddenly sends the tray flying through the air towards Bucky. Caught unprepared, Bucky flinches to the right, and the tray narrowly misses him. He hears a crunch, then turns to realize Steve had aimed the tray beside him intentionally, finding the final coworker crumpled just behind him, stained dress shirt now sullied by both beer and blood from his newly broken nose. 

“Huh,” Bucky says, then looks at Steve with a grin. “Scared me for a second there, Stevie.” 

Steve grins back at him, then flinches when the bartender speaks up from behind him. “That was my favorite serving tray. I’m definitely going to have to get rid of it now.” 

Steve looks cowed, shoulders rounding as he looks at her apologetically. “We are so sorry, ma’am. That got a little out of hand.” 

“No, don’t worry about it,” she says with a rueful head shake. “We’ve been fight free for a few weeks now. It was bound to happen sometime soon.” She looks around her bar at the four men lying on the ground in various states of distress, then at the couple who is still in their booth, looking a little shell shocked. “At least this fight was for a good reason. Those guys are dicks.” 

As Steve begins to smile, Bucky decides he likes her. 

* * *

The man with the combover has a hand to his head, the other extended in front of him. ‘I don’t—I don’t know, what it is you want, Bro,” he stammers, backing away. 

Clint opens his mouth to reply, though he’s not exactly sure what he’s going to say, when Natasha inserts herself between them smoothly. “We know you are connected to Ivan, and he isn’t happy with you. He does not like what you’re doing here.” 

Clint tries to keep his eyes from widening in surprise, though it seems his concern is unwarranted; as soon as Natasha had said the name Ivan, Combover’s entire focus is on her, fearful eyes riveted to her face. “But I thought he was out of Brooklyn,” he asks in a whisper, “we were told—"

“You really think Ivan would stay out of Brooklyn, just because of those charges laid against him?” Natasha asks derisively. “You boys should know better than that.” She flows forward, stopping a foot away from him. At barely 5 foot 4, slender and slight, Natasha shouldn’t have the power to make such a beefy man tremble, and yet, trembling he is. 

She extends her hand and walks her fingers up his arm, index and middle high stepping over folds of red velour. When she gets up to his shoulder, she makes eye contact and leans forward. Clint wonders if his breath is as bad as the stains on his shirt and the evidence of many long night smoke breaks on the ground around them might suggest. Bad breath or not, Natasha doesn’t falter, her expression unwaveringly cold. 

Clint can’t quite make out her whisper, but he can make out the sheer terror that soon spreads over Combover’s face. She takes a step back, looks at her hand, then wipes it against her jeans, nose wrinkled in disgust. 

“Yes, da, we will go, you tell him,” Combover says, tripping over himself towards Chest Hair, who lets out a dazed “…what?” 

Combover gathers him up under his arms and with a panicky last look at Natasha, hustles him around the corner into the night.

A minute passes, then Clint sees Natasha’s body relax, wary tension bleeding out in an instant. “So,” he says casually, “Ivan?” 

“That guy I defended,” she says, not looking at him. 

“You knew these guys were connected to him?” Clint asks, eyebrows furrowing. “And you knew that he’s ‘not staying out of Brooklyn’, or whatever?” 

“No, Clint,” Natasha says, finally turning to him. “I just made an educated guess. It was a calculated risk.” 

Clint nods, then reaches out his arm, an invite for her under his shoulder. “You’re scarily good at being scary, you know.” 

She gives him an unimpressed look before nestling herself against him. She rearranges his arm across her shoulders, untucking her hair so that it doesn’t catch. 

“What did you tell him, anyways?” Clint asks, looking out into the street as they begin to move down the sidewalk. It doesn’t seem as though anyone has noticed their altercation, or otherwise knows better than to stick their nose into this kind of business. 

“Typical things,” Natasha says, shrugging. “Ivan was warning them, stay away, death to mothers and children, etcetera.” 

Clint huffs out a laugh, his breath puffing warm, visible in the light from the streetlights. “Scarily scary, the scariest.” 

He can feel Natasha laugh against him, and he smiles. “So about that fight, huh. A little crazy, right?” 

“Yes, Clint,” Natasha says, patiently. 

“We should probably contact the others.” 

“Yes, Clint,” Natasha repeats, and when he looks down at her, she’s already in the process of pressing send on a message that he sees has seven recipients. The flip phone in his pocket chimes a second later.

“What, did you just do that?” he asks, startled. This whole Nat moving without being noticed thing is going to take him some time to get used to. 

She looks up at him again, and doesn’t dignify that with a response. 

“How did you even get their phone numbers?” Clint asks, before adjusting his question bemusedly. “ _ When _ did you even get their phone numbers?” 

“Of course I have their numbers.” 

Clint squints, then decides to not tell her that that’s not actually an answer to either of his questions. 

“You’re still holding a fork that was inside a mobster’s hand, idiot.” 

Clint drops it with an undignified yelp. 

* * *

Bucky steps out into the evening air, and pulls at the hairband holding his bun in place, shaking his hair loose about his shoulders. He exhales forcefully and watches his breath float up in the light from the streetlamp. He looks around the street, putting his hand in his pocket. Steve is still inside the bar, having insisted on staying to help clean up after they escorted the group off of the premises earlier. When they came back inside, Bucky was suddenly shaken, thinking of the blood dripping down onto the floor from the one man’s broken nose, a distant ghost of someone else’s blood dripping on the floor in a distant Middle Eastern apartment. Steve had noticed, of course he had, and had told Bucky he’d meet him outside soon. 

Bucky leans back against the window and looks up at the night sky. What a mess this is. 

“Hey man, we wanted to thank you for stepping in back there.” It’s the man with the fade, his blonde boyfriend at his side. 

Bucky shrugs, looking away. “It was more my friend’s thing. You should thank him.” 

“We did, already, back inside,” the blonde man replies, then adds, “but you didn’t have to step in, too. Not many people would.” 

Bucky shakes his head minutely, mouth twisting. “Don’t thank me. It was the right thing to do.” 

“Well, okay,” the blonde says, uncomfortable. “Have a good night, then.” 

Bucky nods and doesn’t say anything. As the two leave, Bucky watches the taller one gently adjust the other’s beanie over his hair, then squeeze him tightly in a one armed hug before they turn a corner. Before the service, he’d been that carefree and open with his affection. The memories of nights spent in the arms of partners, filled with laughter and casual ease, feel so distant, so discordant from who he is now. 

Steve emerges from the bar a few minutes later and walks up to Bucky. “You doing okay, jerk?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes at the old nickname, then shrugs, trying to decide how honest to be. He settles on vaguely ambiguous. “I guess.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow, waiting. Bucky rolls his eyes at his persistence, grudgingly adding, “It’s just weird that we’re able to do all that. It’s a lot. Why us? Why me?” 

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve says. “But I think that maybe it’s a good thing. It was good that we were here tonight, able to do that, able to help those guys, don’t you think?” 

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t say anything. A moment later he feels his phone buzz in his pocket and hears Steve’s ding at the same time. Frowning, he extracts his phone, and sees a text from an unknown number light up the screen. 

_ ‘We need to meet up. Tomorrow, Milo’s coffee, two blocks from group, 4pm.’  _

“Did you just get a really weird message?“ Steve asks, looking up from his phone. 

Bucky nods, but before he can say anything, another message comes through. 

_ ‘This is Natasha. Clint said my text was too cryptic. Sorry.’  _

“How does she have our numbers?” Bucky asks. “Are you giving out numbers to corrupt law-dogs now?” 

“Hey now,” Steve says, admonishing, “You shouldn’t joke about that. You know that’s why she’s at therapy.” He slips his phone back in his pocket and chuckles. “But hell if I’m going to ask her how she got our numbers. That woman is terrifying.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my head I referred to this as the "what the fuck" chapter.


	3. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey did you hear that Tony doesn’t know how to ask for medical consent?_

Clint walks into the coffee shop, immediately unwrapping his scarf from his neck. He looks around the shop for a moment, parsing through the discordant sounds that make up a mess of noise to his ears. He scans the room a few times, then checks his phone again, and rereads Natasha’s latest message _‘back booth in the far corner’_ , which he had received just two minutes prior. He looks around again, suddenly concerned he’d managed to forget which coffee shop he was supposed to be at, despite having been reminded this morning, then again this afternoon. His eyes sweep the four booths along the back wall for a third time before he registers Natasha glaring at him. 

_[Get over here, idiot]_ , she signs at him, and he makes apologetic eyebrows before winding his way between people standing in line and tables crammed full of frazzled students with headphones, brunching moms, and the occasional pre-teen sipping sugary drinks the size of their heads. 

“Damn, Nat,” Clint says, sitting down with an exhale. “You sure know how to pick a place. How long did you have to wait to get this table?” 

“I wanted somewhere public, loud enough that people likely wouldn’t overhear us,” she says patiently. “And I didn’t exactly wait long for the table.” She looks down at her hands with a small smirk. 

Clint looks at her for a minute before comprehension dawns, and he laughs. “Okay, how long did it take of you glaring or waiting ominously before whoever had this table left? Who was it? Tell me it wasn’t some poor stressed out college kid right before finals, Nat, please.” 

Natasha doesn’t deign to respond to him, rising smoothly from her seat. “I’ll get our drinks. You better hope I don’t come back with a monstrosity for you.” 

“You wouldn’t!” Clint says, still laughing. “Black as your soul, my coffee must be!” 

“Shut up,” she says with a sniff as she turns towards the line. “Don’t pretend you won’t drink any kind of coffee I—” Clint misses the last of her words in the hubbub around them. Even after so many years of friendship and as observant as she is, Nat still sometimes forgot how challenging it can be for Clint to hear everything in environments with lots of ambient noise. He hopes it won’t be too bad today once the others arrive. 

Wanda is the first to walk through the door, rubbing gloved hands on her arms as she steps inside. Clint sees Natasha spot her, then step briefly out of line to get Wanda’s attention when it’s clear the younger woman hasn’t noticed her. She taps her gently on the arm, Wanda’s eyes widening for a moment before softening in recognition. They rejoin the line together, with only the smallest of icy glares from Natasha towards the man who’d stepped into her place. 

A few minutes later, Bucky, Steve, and Bruce walk in together. Bucky and Steve are attired similarly, both in leather jackets, Bucky with the left sleeve tucked into the pocket. Bruce is ruffling his overcoat and Clint can see the tension in his expression from across the room. Clint raises his arm in greeting and makes eye contact with Steve, who points him out to his companions. They exchange a few words, and Bucky and Bruce start to make their way over to the booth while Steve heads to the end of the line. 

Bucky slides into the booth across from Clint, looking uncomfortable as Bruce slides next to him. Clint notes the irony of the arrangement and says, “So Bruce, I guess we cut you off. Any chance you want to finish what you were saying about being at your best?” 

Bruce stares at him for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether to be frustrated or find him funny. He settles somewhere in the middle. “Maybe not without Sam here to mediate for us.” 

Clint looks at Bucky, wonders whether whatever transformation he’s undergone since the blast has left him in a better mood than before. “What about you?” 

The glare Bucky gives him provides him with an answer to both spoken question and wondered one. 

“Alright, no worries,” Clint says with his hands up. He sits for a moment before accepting that if anyone is going to initiate small talk, it’ll have to be him. “Why’s your boy at the back of the line? Nat and Wanda would’ve let him jump up with them.” 

Bucky frowns at him, perhaps a level three on the scale Clint’s rapidly forming in his mind to track Bucky’s depth of being upset, and says slowly, “He isn’t ‘my boy’. And he’s really stupid about doing the right thing, even if it doesn’t really matter. Nobody would really care but him, but in this kind of situation, he’ll always go to the end of the line.” 

Clint nods in understanding. “I get that,” he says, then stalls, not really sure where to go from there. “So you guys are friends, then?” 

He swears the look Bucky gives him before muttering a terse, “Yes,” is equivalent to the looks he’d gotten when he’d been 17 and kids his age that he met outside of the circus found out he hadn’t finished 9th grade. He looks down at his hands and decides to go ahead and wait for Nat and Wanda to come back before he’ll attempt speaking again. No matter how attractive the guy, no matter how clearly messed up he is, Clint can’t quite justify putting himself out there again and again if this is going to be the response. Natasha calls him a masochist when it comes to helping others, but Clint swears he has boundaries. Most of the time. Okay, sometimes. 

He studies his fingertips, absently signing along with the song overhead, a jazzy cover that he eventually realizes is nearly a month too early; holiday music does not belong in stores until after Thanksgiving, or National Day of Mourning, as Clint and Natasha have been observing for the past few years. 

There’s a motion beside him, and Sam is sliding into the booth next to him. “Hey guys,” he says, rubbing his hands together after he sets his own travel mug down, which of course he’s the type of person to bring his own coffee to a coffee shop. “Y’all doing okay today?” 

The three all give him some shade of wordless confirmation, though Clint sees that Bruce looks a little sick as he nods, mouth twisting, and Bucky’s frown has deepened to at least a four and a half. 

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “Well, alright then,” he says with a small snort of laughter. “Clearly we’re going to need to reestablish some norms. Lying like you all just did does absolutely no good for anyone involved.” He looks at each of them in turn, and Clint feels a blush rise to his cheeks. 

Bruce is the first to break. “I mean, it’s been really…shitty. I don’t know what is going on, or who I am, or anything.” He looks down, and doesn’t look up as though not seeing their faces will help as he says, “And you know I kind of like knowing what’s going on.” 

“Yeah,” Clint says emphatically, “that. I feel like that.” 

Sam smiles. “Thanks Bruce, Clint.” He looks at Bucky, who gives only a nod in response. “Well, we can wait for everyone else to sit down before we get into things. From what Natasha told me over the phone, you’re all experiencing some extreme changes that are likely the result of the explosion from the other night. That must be very difficult, but I think it’s a good thing you all decided to meet here to talk about it.” 

“Hello, boys,” Natasha drawls, sidling up with her and Clint’s coffees, Wanda just a step behind her. “Did you get started without us?” 

Clint smiles up at her, taking the clearly plain coffee with an open palm of thanks from his lips. “Of course not, we wouldn’t dare.” He sees Bucky look at him, and wonders how he perceives Natasha. He knows she can be a little intimidating to people that haven’t been let into her circle, which, granted, is pretty much limited to Clint as far as he knows. 

Natasha sits next to Sam, and Wanda smiles hesitantly at Bucky before perching cautiously on the edge of the booth bench. “Oh, Steve,” Wanda says, noticing the blonde’s absence. She glances at the group, then extends her right hand towards the nearest table where a lone student sits with noise cancelling headphones, clearly zoned into his work. Her fingers twitch minutely, and Clint’s eyes squint—are they _glowing_?—and suddenly the closest chair, unoccupied, is sliding untouched towards their table. The back of the chair slams into the side of the table, rocking back slightly on its rear legs. Clint feels his mouth physically drop open. “Sorry,” Wanda says softly, her eyes closing against their gazes. “I thought I could just show you. I don’t exactly have a lot of control yet.” 

“Right,” Clint says, hastily. He doesn’t want her to be ashamed of what’s happened to her. “Showing is good. Faster that way.” He reaches his hand diagonally across the table, palm up. Wanda opens her eyes, and starts when she sees his hand. There’s a faint smile on her lips, and she pats his hand gently before folding her own in her lap. 

“You got a chair for me, thanks guys,” Steve says as he arrives, carrying three drinks. He hands two to Bruce and Bucky, and Clint is surprised to see that Bucky’s is one of the aforementioned whipped cream topped behemoths. Bucky looks a little pained as he takes it from Steve, though he doesn’t hesitate to take a sip. Steve straddles the chair and crosses his arms around its back on the table in front of him. “So, strategies. What’s going on, and what do we do about it?” 

Clint can 100% believe this guy is former military. 

Natasha speaks up first. “Clearly the explosion the other night has affected us all in some way, each of us different. I have become more agile, more…subtle, as well. Clint,” and here she tilts her head towards him, “has become incredibly accurate with projectiles. We got in a fight with some members of a local mafia branch last night, and it was hardly a contest.” 

Clint sees Steve’s eyes widen, quickly glancing up and down Natasha’s slight body next to him. Steve then shoots raised eyebrows at Bucky, and when their eyes meet, the smallest hint of a smirk lights Bucky’s face. Clint’s eyes narrow. 

Wanda adds, “And you have all seen what I can do, now. I think there might be more, too. I have been,” she pauses, scrunching her nose and bringing her hand to her head, “hearing people? But in my head?” 

Shit, Clint thinks. That’s probably scary. He hardly knows what to do with his own thoughts sometimes, he can’t imagine hearing other peoples’ as well. 

Steve echoes his thoughts, “Shit. And I thought we were weird.” He looks at Wanda then rapidly amends, “Wait no, not that we were weird, that what’s happened to us is weird, sorry.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable at his implication, then says, “Me and Buck seem to have about the same thing. We’re both really strong and can heal quickly. I’ve also got a lot more endurance and speed, though Bucky hasn’t tested that just yet.” 

“I don’t like running,” Bucky says, then looks surprised that he’s spoken. Clint quickly looks at Bruce, lest Bucky catch Clint staring at him. 

“You know that giant green thing out in Harlem yesterday?” Bruce asks, resolutely studying the napkin holder in the center of their table. At Steve’s ‘yes’, Bruce continues. “Yeah, that was me.” 

The table is silent. 

“It…was you?” Clint hazards, bracing for another scornful look from one of his former therapy protocol partners from across the table. 

“Yes,” Bruce says, looking incredibly sad, instead of like Clint’s just said something totally impossible. “I literally became a giant monster yesterday and terrorized a New York burrough, caused thousands of dollars in property damage, sent at last count 16 people to the hospital, and mentally scarred who knows how many others.” 

No one says anything. Clint doesn’t know what anyone would. 

Bruce lets out a rueful chuckle, then looks up, expression haunted. “I think it happens when I get angry. I can feel it, him, start to come over me when my emotions get too heated.” He looks at Sam. “You know how I told you I feel like a whole different person when I get angry? Well, now I become one. And he’s terrible.” He looks back down at the napkin holder, studying its metallic sides. 

There’s silence for another few moments before Steve breaks it. “Okay, so, any ideas how this happened, or what we should do about it? Outside of it being a part of the explosion, of course.” 

“I haven’t figured out anything about the people involved,” Natasha says, “though I have sent a few photos around to some of my acquaintances.” 

“I’m surprised the cops didn’t confiscate your phone,” Bucky says. “That’s protocol.” 

“Oh, they did,” Natasha responds blandly. Bucky blinks, then reddens when Steve snorts. “As for what to do from now on,” she continues, rolling her shoulders forward, “that’s why I reached out to you all. I think we need to stay in contact with each other. I am sure you will appreciate anything I can find out, just as you might find out information that will assist me and Clint.” 

“I don’t want to be alone in this,” Wanda says, big eyes soft, vulnerable. “I don’t, I can’t, I am already so alone.” 

Clint feels his heart squeeze in his chest as Wanda’s words send an echo reverberating through his memory, each surface it touches a reminder of the death of parents, a recollection of too many wounded faces in and out of the youth center over the years, a vision of a young Clint long repressed. “You’re not alone,” he says resolutely. “Not anymore. We won’t let you be.” 

“I think you all have the right idea,” Sam says, a gentle smile directed around the table. He takes a sip from the travel cup he’d brought in with him, then continues. “You all agreed to partake in group therapy because you recognize the value in working through concerns together, the value in finding answers in shared experience. What you’re going through is unique, individual, just like how you are all unique individuals who showed up to session two days ago ready to discuss, share, and learn from each other. Your concerns look different now, but you all are still united by a shared experience and by a shared desire for knowledge, for understanding, for growth.” 

Clint looks across the table. Bruce is twisting a napkin between his hands, expression closed off. Bucky nods, and Clint sees he’s leaned closer to Wanda, his arm pressed against hers; a comfort Clint didn’t imagine Bucky would be willing to give. 

“Regardless of what happens next,” Sam continues, hands loosely clasped around his mug, expression calm,“I hope you all can remember that there is strength in solidarity. Two days ago you believed, or at least hoped, that working together would provide you the answers you were looking for. There’s no reason for that to change now. I just might need to adapt our protocols for group a little bit.” With a teasing quirk of his lips, he settles back against the booth. 

Steve nods.“I agree. I know it’s easier to want to do things on our own,” he cuts a look at Bucky, “but what’s that saying, there’s strength in numbers? We can’t pretend to know how to figure this out alone.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, no-one else as brash as Steve, needing time to process Sam’s claims. Clint watches the other coffeeshop customers. Does that young mother feel a connection to other mothers, shushing her toddler against her chest in a crowded room? What concerns does the businessman waiting for his coffee worry about? What revelations is that teen staring raptly at her phone grappling with? Clint’s eyes latch on to the businessman as he picks up his coffee from the counter, then glances towards their booth before moving to a recently vacated two-top against the wall. 

Clint narrows his gaze, watching the man pull out a phone unobtrusively. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the movement, but he feels unease grow in his stomach anyway. “Nat,” he says, then cranes around Sam to look at her. [ _Man in the suit, looked at us, suspicious]_ his hands say on the table in front of him. He can feel the rest of the table watching them, and says apologetically, “Sorry, secrets don’t make friends, I know.” 

In the space of the few seconds it took him to draw attention to himself, Natasha has risen from the booth and is picking her way carefully through the room towards the man. Clint sees Bucky realize that she’s left, then gives him a weak grin when he turns his glare to Clint. “I noticed someone,” Clint admits, then adds as Steve and Sam whip their heads around, “You can’t all look. Nat’s got it.” 

Clint watches as Natasha’s stride changes, growing subtly more sensual, hips swaying, body looser. She flicks her hair with one hand and sends a wink to the barista, whose gaze is following her as well. Clint smirks as the worker’s face floods red, eyes dropping to the steamer in front of him. Attract and redirect, adapt and redefine. 

Natasha comes to a stop at the two-top and rests her elbow on it, chin in hand. Clint can see her profile clearly, eyelashes that swoop half-lidded as full lips rise minutely. The man is startled, dropping his phone clumsily, then sliding it back quickly in his pocket. He runs a hand through his thinning hair and responds to whatever Natasha’s just said with a shake of his head. She leans closer, tilting up on the balls of her feet. Clint watches as his expression changes, eyes growing briefly wide before his face settles into a rueful grimace. He stands, and Natasha smirks, leaning back. She turns around, and Clint reads ‘ _Come on, then_ ’ on her lips. Her hands, meanwhile, tell Clint how to prepare. 

“He’s here for us,” Clint tells the table, translating. “Not in a bad way, he’s government, has an offer.” 

All around the table, bodies straighten, jaws tighten, and a fist or two clenches. Clint raises an eyebrow at the visceral animosity radiating from the other side of the table. 

The ruse up, everyone turns to watch their approach. Natasha winks at them, and the man following looks only a little guilty. He’s older, pale and a little box-like. His hair is thinning along the top, and he’s wearing a nondescript gray suit as though he’d been hoping to blend into the pedestrian traffic of Brooklyn. Clint imagines he probably does with ease, normally. 

They reach the table and Natasha sits down, gesturing with an open palm. “Well?” 

The man looks around the table, gaze seeming to catch only briefly on Bucky’s hostile expression. He sighs, then says, “I’d hoped this would take a little longer, but regardless, I did intend to speak to you today. My name is Agent Coulson, I work for a department of the United States Government called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcements and Logistics Division, SHIELD.” He glances to the side, then puts up a conciliatory hand. “One moment.” 

He grabs another chair from the table behind them, college student still typing furiously away. He brings it over, setting it down between Steve and Natasha. “I doubt you want me to stay long, but it looks stranger for me to stand over you while you all sit.” 

Clint nods. Their group is large enough already. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks, and ooh boy, is that an intimidating expression. 

Coulson doesn’t shy away. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what looks like business cards, setting them on the table. “We were looking into the explosion that occurred on November 4th at 6:43 pm, in the warehouse directly behind Brooklyn Counseling Connections. It has come to our attention that you may have been affected in some way by the energy blast that blew through the building you were in at that time. I would like to invite you all to come down to a division of SHIELD’s offices this Saturday at 10 am. We would be more than happy to share information and possibly help you adapt to any new changes you experience.” He spreads his card out on the table; there are seven, and Clint can read a phone number, address, and Agent Coulson’s name on each. 

“Why should we trust what you have to say?” Bucky growls through his glower. 

“I doubt there’s anything I can say to convince you of much now,” Coulson says with a shake of his head. “But take some time. You can look into us. Perhaps reach out to some of your old coworkers, Sergeant Barnes, Corporal Rogers. I believe Ms. Romanov might also know a little about our activities.”

With a final glance around the group, he stands, picking the chair back up. “I hope to see you all on Saturday.” He turns to leave, placing the chair back at its former table. They all watch as he deftly weaves his way through the room, bell above the door tinkling as he exits.

* * *

Bucky turns back to the table once the government agent is out of his view on his way down the street. He catches Barton’s eyes across the table, sees them widen and realizes his own face must be contorted into a pretty nasty sneer. Well, that’s fitting. How did the agent even know they were meeting? Chills had run down his spine when he called Bucky by name and former rank. 

Abruptly, he feels Bruce shoving at his side. “Get out, get out, get out,” Bruce says, a wild look in his eyes. Wanda hears and hastily slides out of the booth, Bucky following. “Too confined,” Bruce grits as he moves. “I need to not be here anymore.” 

He pauses at the booth for the briefest of moments, visible discomfort coloring his face. “I’ll be in touch. Probably will be there, maybe, I’ll text. Gotta go.” He turns and shoulders his way through the room, and Bucky’s eyes track a wave of disgruntled coffee shop customers in his wake. 

“Well,” Barton says, eyebrows high on his forehead, “Probably shouldn’t sit him on the inside of the booth next time. Or be inside at all, next time.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, unable to tell if Barton is making a joke. He slides back into the seat. Wanda is still standing, hovering at the end of the table. “I need to go as well,” she says. “Sorry, but I have work soon. I will be there on Saturday, I think. I would like to know as much as I can about this, and if they can help me, that is good.” She looks around at them, her gazing stopping on Barton last. “And if you all will be there, that is even better.” 

With a twitch of something that might have been a smile if she wasn't so clearly close to breaking, she nods and leaves. She flits through the crowded room, gracefully avoiding contact with anyone, ducking out of the way and pausing several times as unobservant people nearly knock into her. It suddenly becomes clear to Bucky that Wanda is the type of person who is well used to accommodating and making way for others. He wonders how much of that is her nature, how much of it is growing up in a repressive post-communist country, and how much of it is new, learned in this nation where she’s away from all things familiar, ostracized and excluded in her journey to assimilate. 

Steve stands up and slides into the booth next to Bucky. “You here for a bit?” He directs his question at Sam. 

“Sure,” Sam says. “My group sessions are cancelled for the rest of the week, and all my individuals were this morning and afternoon. Is this something you want me around for?” 

“Technically, you are included in this something,” Natasha points out, sliding one of the agent’s cards towards him. 

“Hmm,” Sam says, “I suppose I am.” He picks the card up and tucks it in his wallet. “So, thoughts?” 

Bucky can feel the tension in his friend’s body next to him before Steve speaks. “Coulson said you know something about SHIELD, Natasha?” 

She nods. “Yes. I have seen their evidence used a few times over the years in cases I have been involved in.” 

“Don’t you normally defend the bad guys?” Bucky asks. “Why would it be a good thing for SHIELD to be involved in your cases?” 

The only tell Natasha gives is the faintest tightening of her mouth. Barton’s expression, on the other hand, is much more open, glaring at Bucky in apparent defense of his friend. 

“Buck,” Steve says, quietly admonishing him. 

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

“You’re not wrong,” Natasha says. “I have been involved in many high profile cases in defense of a number of reprehensible criminals, and it’s not often that my clients lose, or face charges for their actions. But that’s how I know SHIELD is an organization that we can trust. When my clients do lose, or even are brought to court, it is often due to allegations supported by evidence found by outside interest groups. SHIELD is one of those groups.” 

Bucky lets out a noise that might be interpreted as conceding. 

“Steve, Bucky, what are your thoughts?” Sam asks, looking at them both in turn. 

“I’m not sure,” Steve says. “It’s been a couple years since I heard about SHIELD getting involved in any ops. The one time I can remember, it was something real weird on the outskirts of the town we were monitoring, and once they arrived, we regular Army grunts were told to leave it to them. I guess that’s the way with specialists, though.” 

Sam looks at Bucky. Bucky sighs. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t trust him. Them. The agent, or his sketchy, out-of-the-public’s eye- acronym of an organization.” 

“And you, Clint,” Sam asks, turning to him. “What are you thinking right now?” 

“I guess a little like Bucky. I’m hesitant to just jump all in here, and honestly it’s hella creepy that he knew we were going to be here today,” Barton says, to Bucky’s surprise. He seems like such a laid back, unquestioning person. “What do you recommend?” 

“I think I’m seeing this from a different perspective than the rest of you,” Sam admits. “For one, I’m not in the terrifying—and it’s okay to be scared—situation of gaining all these new, untested powers like you are, so the skin I have in the game is very different. For another, I have a lot more trust in the government than any of you seem to. I know I mentioned it at our first session, but I’m former Air Force, and half of my caseload is still at the V.A. Do I agree with everything that our government and legal systems do? No, but neither are the bones I have to pick with them so sharp or so heavy as yours.” 

“That’s not a real answer,” Bucky says. 

Sam shrugs, spreading his hands on top of the table. “I’m an outsider here. I think it’s worth you knowing where my perspective comes from before deciding if you want to let my opinion affect yours. This is outside of my role as your therapist, too. Think about it. This decision is all about trust, whether you trust SHIELD or not. And that’s not something I can convince you of—I’m no SHIELD expert, and you all know that. Whether you trust this organization is something you need to decide for yourself, probably by finding and using evidence on your own. If I try to persuade you one way or another, it will undermine my ability to support your individual decisions, take away your autonomy.” 

Bucky frowns, processing. Steve is thoughtful, considering silently for once. 

“Also,” Sam adds after a pause, “I don’t want to break the trust you are beginning to develop in me. Now, will I be there to support whatever decision you make? Yes. That, I am prepared for.” 

“Aw, personal responsibility, no,” Barton says, knocking against Sam’s shoulder. “Why can’t you just make the decision for us?” 

Sam laughs. “Oh please. Not a single one of you sitting here wants me or anyone else to make a decision for you.” 

“Now that might be the most accurate thing I’ve heard today,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t help but nod once in agreement, his respect for Sam rising. He’d been wary of Steve’s suggestion of a therapist with a known military background, but Sam’s done nothing but prove he’s not here to push his own agenda. 

“I will be there on Saturday,” Natasha says decisively. “I think you should come, too. If you want, I would be happy to talk to you more later this week, though if you don’t trust me, I hope you are willing to do the research on your own before ruling this opportunity out.” She stands, sweeping her coffee cup into her hand. “Clint, are you ready to leave?” 

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Barton says, and waits for Sam to slide out first. Before leaving, he looks back at Bucky and Steve. “I get not trusting them, I do. But maybe that’s what makes it okay—we’re going in with our guards up. If we’re all watching, they won’t be able to get much past us.” He quirks a grin, then claps Sam on the shoulder before leaving.

Natasha blazes a path through the coffee shop, her petite body a contact free battering ram that Barton casually follows behind rent-free. Sam, already standing, takes his leave, and Steve and Bucky are the only ones left, two bigger-than-average guys squished tight on one side of the booth. 

“Let’s go, punk,” Bucky says and smacks Steve on the shoulder. “We’ve got lots to think about.” 

* * *

The numbers on Clint’s phone roll over from 9:54 to 9:55 right as Natasha appears beside him, hand snaking through his elbow. He lurches to the side and curses as he nearly drops his extra large coffee. 

“Hmm,” Natasha hums with a grin, “so jumpy today.” 

“We have got to get you a bell,” Clint says, pounding in his chest beginning to lessen. “Did you have any trouble at the office?” 

“No, everything is fine,” Natasha says. “I told O’Connell she could take lead on the Garcia case, and you know she’s a power shark. She’ll take anything I give her if it might increase her standing at the firm.” 

Clint nods, though to be honest, he doesn’t see much difference between most of Natasha’s coworkers. Over the years they’ve all sort of morphed together in his mind into one giant power-hungry, cutthroat amoeba that represents all Natasha dislikes about herself and society. 

He rubs his hands together and wishes for the fifth time since leaving the apartment that he had brought gloves. At least they won’t be outside for much longer. “Do you think you’re going to stay there much longer?” 

“I don’t know,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “We’ll see what happens today when we go in. Oh, look, here comes Wanda.” 

Clint looks back, taking his eyes away from where he’s been studying the face of Stark Tower, rising high in the middle of downtown Manhattan. He’d been surprised when the address on the agent’s card showed up here when he’d put it in the GPS, but Natasha speculates that Tony Stark is some sort of tech consultant. Ever since she planted the idea in his head, Clint’s been hyper aware of all the CCTV cameras on street corners he’s never really noticed before. Wanda paces quickly towards them, waving briefly when she notices them before shoving her hands back under her scarf. 

“I do not like the cold,” she says when she reaches them. “It is cold in Sokovia, it is cold in New York, I do not know why I chose to come here.” 

Clint laughs, then offers his unoccupied arm to her. “Let’s go inside then, shall we? I’m sure SHIELD and Stark keep things plenty warm.” 

Wanda takes his arm, and they walk together towards the ornate revolving turnstile door. When they reach it, Wanda stops, a stricken look on her face. Clint studies her, a question in his eyes. “Can we go through the smaller door, on the side?” She asks, voice tiny. 

“Of course,” Clint says, confused. Natasha is already at the smaller door, holding it open for them both. 

“Sorry,” Wanda exhales once they make it inside, a wall of warmth sweeping over them. “It’s dumb. My brother, he really liked those doors when we were younger. He would always run around, you know, in circles. Mama hated it.” 

“It’s not dumb,” Clint corrects, squeezing her shoulder. He thinks of how the smell of popcorn made just right will send him back to the big top, collecting loose change under the grandstands with Barney after shows. “Memories, they strike at the most unexpected times, don’t they?” 

She nods, and Clint surveys the room, eyes quickly alighting on the rest of their group. Steve, Sam, Bucky and Bruce are already waiting, various versions of unease painted on their faces. Sam looks the most unconcerned, sitting loosely on a white leather couch with smooth lines that match the lobby’s contemporary design. Clint can read the two former military men’s wariness like sides of the same coin; Bucky is tense, eyes scanning all around the high-vaulted room, while Steve is standing stoically, solid and unshakeable, his jaw tense and gaze fixed forward. Bruce has a book out, though Clint can see his unease betray his cool in the way his fingers tap against his knee and foot jigs on the ground. Coulson is with them, along with another agent who leaves when Coulson waves at the group entering. 

They cross the foyer, footsteps echoing. Clint is surprised that there aren’t many other people there this morning; he’d have thought Stark Industries would be bustling on a Saturday. 

“Welcome,” Coulson says when they make it over. “If you’ll join me, I’d like to take you back to meet Director Fury, who will help explain the situation.” 

As they follow, Clint finds himself drifting to the back of the group, more comfortable from the rear where he’s able to watch everyone in front of him. Steve is striding at the front, asking Coulson questions Clint can’t quite make out. They file into a large elevator that Bruce pauses at before entering. The door slips shut and Clint sidles up next to him, saying quietly, “Not one for confined spaces, huh?” 

Bruce breaks out of his locked stare at the door to look at him. “No, not lately.” 

“Me neither,” Clint says, shaking his arms out at his side. He lets a casual nonchalance filter into his voice. “Did you know, I once spent seven hours in a trick magic box? Like the ones that magicians use to pretend to cut people in half. My dick older brother thought it was funny to leave me in there after a show. Should’ve known not to trust him when he told me to get in. Especially after the time when he locked me in the literal lion’s den overnight.” 

Bruce looks at him, bewildered, tension frown easing from his forehead. “What?” 

“All kinds of things lying around the backstage of a circus, my man,” Clint says as the elevator dings open. Bruce’s face is disbelieving as he steps out, and Natasha winks at Clint when she joins them. Deflect and redirect. 

Coulson gestures them forward into a conference room lined with windows. Inside is a tall bald Black man, dressed in, no shit, a black trench coat and matching eye patch. Clint wonders if he’s stepped into some sort of reality show, because surely this is not how real secret government organizations operate. The man regards them as they enter, hands clasped behind his back. 

There’s a large table that takes up most of the room, plush blue chairs surrounding it. Clint watches as Steve and Bucky exchange glances before Bucky shakes his head and remains standing while Steve sits, his back to the corner of the room. Clint studies his position, then realizes this way Bucky has sight lines out the windows and through the transparent glass walls that provide no coverage from the hallway on one side. Clint takes a seat himself and pulls out a pen, idly flipping it in his hands. 

Once it’s apparent that Bucky won’t be joining them at the table, the man-in-black takes a seat and dives right in. “My name is Fury, I’m the director here at SHIELD. Our primary objective is to ensure the safety of the United States and global community through intelligence and proactive defense measures. I asked Coulson to bring you here today in hopes of convincing you to join SHIELD as field operatives, after extensive training.” 

“Proactive defense measures?” Bucky snorts derisively from the corner . 

Fury fixes his gaze on him. “Yes. We gather intel and evidence in order to prevent and protect. Unfortunately,” he turns to the rest of the table, “a lot of what we do is responsive, as well. We do our best to have eyes everywhere,” Clint feels his lips tighten at the truly inappropriately timed eye-related comment that pops in his mind, “but as is often the case, we find ourselves tasked with the clean up of criminal activities.” 

“Clean up?” Steve asks, arms crossed against his chest. 

“Sometimes we don’t know about things before they happen,” Fury clarifies, “and so we go in once events are already set in motion.” 

“So you…what, send in hit teams?” Sam asks, eyes narrowed. 

“STRIKE teams, actually, is what we call them,” Fury says. 

“And what, is that what you envision for us?” Steve asks. “A super powered hit group for SHIELD to use at your discretion, to take out whoever you think needs to be taken down?” 

“Essentially, yes,” Fury responds frankly. “There are threats that traditional operatives are incapable of handling without considerable injury. There are threats that would be more suited to individuals with your particular skill sets and talents.” 

Clint tilts his head. “You know that most of us are not like…spies, right? Or soldiers? Except for those two,” he flicks his free hand towards where Steve and Bucky sit, scowling, “both of which who apparently dislike the military enough they chose to specifically avoid free veteran therapy at the V.A.? Something tells me that ain’t quite the crew you’re looking for.” The pen in his hand is twirling faster, almost a blur between his fingers. 

Fury studies him, and Clint wonders how much Fury knows about him, if he knows that Clint had barely managed to scrape up a GED at 19, if he knows about the years he’d spent helping the circus steal from small towns across America. “I am convinced,” Fury says, “that you all have skills that would be incredibly useful to us. As for the rest, we can train you.” 

Natasha, unusually quiet since entering the room, speaks up from beside Clint. Her face is open, challenging. “And why should we do this? Uproot our lives, change who we are, become this specialized team?” 

Fury looks around the room, calculating. “Because it’s the right thing to do. With SHIELD you will have the opportunity to make the world a safer place, more so than you ever have before. I think that is what matters to you, at the core. However, if ethical dilemmas are not enough to convince you, I can direct your thoughts instead to something more personal—the explosion that happened this week was caused by an organization SHIELD has been trying to tamp down for years, Hydra.” 

Clint sees Steve’s eyes widen in recognition before he is able to martial his thoughts back into conformity behind his frown. 

“Hydra is a neo-nazi terrorist group, a revival of an experimental, scientific elitist group that began before World War Two. They’ve been operating on an international scale for decades, including here in New York. The explosion you were all affected by was at a suspected cell in Brooklyn that'd been honing in on for a while. The changes you are going through, we think, are the result of radiation experiments gone, well, very wrong. We believe they are developing weapon technologies that could ultimately harm millions of people.” 

Clint glances around the table as Fury speaks. Bruce is sitting up, eyes lighting at the mention of radiation. Wanda is perched carefully in her seat, listening closely to everything Fury says. Clint tilts his head minutely to look under the table and can see a faint glow surrounding her fingers. He’ll have to ask Wanda what she’s reading from Fury, if that’s what she’s doing. Sam and Steve mirror each other, intent expressions identical as they analyze Fury’s words. 

“So what, you want to train us up so we can go and fuck up this terrorist group?” Bucky asks incredulously. His brown hair is down today, falling forward across his face, adding an extra layer for his glare to cut through. It’s oddly attractive. 

“Yes, exactly,” Fury replies, leaning back in his chair. “That and then some. You can ask this one about my intentions, if you’d like.” He nods his head at Wanda, who flinches and blushes scarlet. “Your subtlety needs work, Ms. Maximoff.” 

Wanda shrinks under everyone’s eyes. “I can not see everything,” she whispers, delicate hands twisting under her gaze, “but what I did see was true, and what he says is true. Hydra is bad, evil, and SHIELD wants us to help stop them. He believes that we can do it.” 

Clint wonders how exactly he got caught up in a group that someone like Fury can believe in. Clint literally works at a youth center and can barely make it to work on time most days. Newly enhanced incredible aim aside, how the hell is he qualified to be on an elite team of what, super soldiers and spies? He knows that if Natasha thinks they should do it, he’ll follow, and he’ll go all in, but really, him? He doesn’t know what Fury expects from him, but he’s sure he’ll be disappointed by what he gets. 

“If you accept, we will begin what I’ve outlined as the Avengers’ Initiative. Agent Coulson will provide you with the necessary paperwork to help explain everything, provide details and legal clarification.” 

“Avengers’ Initiative?” Steve’s scoff and dubious expression reflect Clint’s thoughts. All black outfits, eye patches, underground Nazi organizations, and a name as lame as that? Clint is really, really not sure he isn’t stuck in an early 2000’s Matt Damon movie. 

“Yes,” Fury says with—somehow—a completely straight face. “There is wrong that is being done in the world, and I think that this team can be the ones to avenge those who have been wronged, and protect the world from further suffering.” 

There’s silence in the room while everyone processes, or possibly prevents themselves from saying anything to make fun of Fury’s excessive gravitas. 

“I think we’re going to need to workshop that name,” Clint finds himself saying. 

Fury turns to look at him, eye coolly assessing. “Is that your way of expressing interest in joining, Mr. Barton?” 

“Huh,” Clint says, and realizes Fury isn’t exactly wrong in his assessment. Better not take any chances though, so he peeks sideways at Natasha. Her head shakes once, _no_ , and her hands flash [ _wait]_ and [ _paper]_ on the top of the table.

He meets Fury’s gaze with a saccharine smile. “I think we’d better see this paperwork before signing our lives away to you. Definitely need to see if there’s a clause in there that lets us choose a better name.” 

Clint thinks that maybe if Fury were the type of person with a sense of humor, he might’ve just earned a laugh. 

* * *

Steve is silent as they begin to walk to the nearest subway station. Bucky waits, patient; he knows the silence won’t last long, and that once Steve gets going, it’ll be hard to stop him. The sun is bright overhead, a warmth juxtaposed with the biting November breeze. Manhattan is busy and obnoxious, over-excited crowds and streets too noisy, too much. Bucky hates it. 

“I think we should do it.” 

Bucky stops, reaches out his hand to stop Steve. The crowd flows around them. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” 

Steve nods. “I think it’s the right thing. It’s not like we’re two dumb kids again, brainwashed by a false justice system at 18. We know what injustice looks like, now. We know how to ask questions.” He looks down, then back up. “We know how to say no.” 

There had been a lot of things wrong with their service in the Army. Steve had been the one to sign up first, had always known he was going to, following in the footsteps of a father who’d passed away overseas when Steve was too young to remember. Bucky’d followed along behind, of course, but it hadn’t taken long before they both had realized that what they were doing in the Middle East was unjust and rooted in a massive American global control and superiority complex that harmed every single person and nation involved. They’d been idiots at 18, so blind to the faults of the United States, so eager to ‘do the right thing’ as prescribed to them by years of nationalistic propaganda disguised as history textbooks. Bucky would give just about anything to change the unquestioning compliance of his youth, to be able to shake young Steve’s shoulders and yell “this is all a fucking lie, this isn’t how you protect people!”

The thought that Steve wants to get involved with another group that has the power to make life and death decisions ‘for the sake of global safety’ is more than a shock.

Someone jostles into Bucky’s back, but his feet stay firmly planted. “You think we can trust SHIELD to do the right thing by us, by others?” 

“I think so,” Steve answers. “And I think I trust the others, Natasha, Sam and all enough too, that they’re in it for the right reasons. I don’t think anyone is going into this blind.” 

A car honks, and a cyclist zips by. The traffic light turns red, then green. 

“We’ll get the answers we don’t have,” Steve says after a few moments have passed. “We’ll be with other people going through the same thing. That matters, you know it does. You know we wouldn’t have made it without each other. Maybe this team will become a group we can trust, that we can rely on.” 

Bucky snorts a derisive laugh. “As if I would ever trust anyone or rely on anyone like I do you, punk.” 

Steve smiles, then moves his eyebrows as though to ask if they could continue heading home. Bucky nods, and moves alongside him. They pass a hotdog kiosk, a woman in hot pink loudly berating the seller for his assumption of the inclusion of mustard. A trash bag skids along the ground, wraps itself around a fire hydrant. A passing pedestrian speaks rapid Arabic into her cellphone, and Bucky hears the ghost of a yell from Rumlow, urging them inside the apartment, faster, guns up and ready. He can smell the sweat trickling down his neck, a memory of blistering sun on sandy streets. 

“Do you think this will help make it right?” Bucky asks, voice a whisper, gaze trained his feet as they move forward, step by step along the pavement. Bucky can tell Steve hears him by the slight shift in his gait, and can tell he’s waiting for more. 

“Do you think…this will help fix what we’ve done?” Bucky casts his eyes skyward, tracing clouds in the sky. “I know I can’t take back the hurt I’ve caused, the lives I’ve ruined, but maybe, maybe if the universe is any kind of forgiving, this will help.” He hates how vulnerable he feels, hates the thin reed of hope he knows Steve can hear in his voice.

Steve slings his arm over Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky only flinches a little when Steve’s hand touches where his left arm used to be. “I think so, Buck.” 

* * *

“How are you enjoying my gym?” 

Bucky jerks his head back abruptly, face almost making contact with Natasha’s foot as he swerves to avoid Steve’s fist. They’re in the middle of a session at Stark Tower in the newly renovated training gym and range. Their trainer for the day, Hill, takes a step back, putting her hands up to call pause. Bucky turns to see a short, brown-haired man walking towards them, blue sunglasses pushed into his hair. 

“Mr. Stark,” Hill says. “It’s a pleasure to see you.” Bucky’s only seen her a few times before today, but her flat tone of voice tells him it’s anything but a pleasure. 

Bucky gives him another once over, sweeping across Stark’s disheveled suit and cocky grin. 

“Isn’t it always?” Tony asks, cheshire grin in on the joke, and comes to a stop in front of them. He rubs his hands together and looks over their trio with what Bucky can only describe as manic glee. 

Steve, ever the gentleman, sticks out his hand to greet him with a quick,“Steve Rogers.”

Natasha affects a coy smile and offers her hand to Tony, who takes it gently, “If I hadn’t just seen you nearly knock his head off, I’d say I was positively charmed, Ms. Romanov.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Natasha demurs, “some men find that incredibly charming.” 

Tony turns to Bucky, who hasn’t moved forward. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes.” 

“I must be,” Bucky responds drily while he winces internally at the title.

“Oooh, we’ve got a sassy one on our hands,” Tony says, eyebrows waggling. “That’s my favorite. So, are you liking the gym? I’ve got some really great things set up for you boyos and girl-o. Just wait until the guys in suits decide they’re ready for you to move on to distance weapons; you’re going to really like what I did in the range.” He sends a pout towards the trainer. “They’re still not cleared for that, right, Maria?” 

“Correct, Mr. Stark,” Maria says. “Though why Director Fury thinks it’s pertinent to include you on training schedules is beyond my comprehension.” 

“Tsk tsk, dear Maria, don’t be testy. You know the drill, my building, I’ve got to be allowed some knowledge of what’s going on. Plus, you know Fury is dying to get me in on the action one of these days.” The expression on Hill’s face implies that Stark may have his own and Fury’s desires confused. Without seeming to take a breath, Stark turns back to the trio. “SHIELD doesn’t like to admit it, but I’m a valuable contributor to this operation. Beyond, of course, the whole building and funding and training facilities and everything else.” 

In the few days before arriving at Stark Industries for the first time and the subsequent week since they’d joined on, Bucky has done his homework. Tony Stark is the opposite of what typically happens to second-generational wealth. Rather than squandering the money and empire his father had built up developing weapon technology throughout most of the latter half of the 20th century, Tony had become a resident technological engineering genius in his own right. Since taking over SI in his twenties, Stark had leaned heavily into alternative energy development and cyber security. Studying him now in the middle of the floors he’s let SHIELD set up a division of operations in, flawless gym and covert ops abounding, Bucky wonders just what else Stark has a hand in. 

“Barnes, James, here’s the thing,” Stark says, “I have an idea for your arm.” 

“My what?” Bucky asks, taken aback. 

“Your arm. Well, your lack of one, that is.” Stark winces for a half second at his faux pas, then barrels on. “I have a friend in bio tech and some schematics drawn up and I think we can put together a prosthetic for you that’ll be great, do great.” 

“What?” Bucky repeats. 

“Yeah yeah, it’s great. I was talking to her—Dr. Helen Cho, that is, best mind out of South Korea in decades, and that’s saying something—and I looked through like a whole decade worth of peer reviewed research last night and I think we can put together something that’ll function like a normal arm. Connected to your nervous system, with weight sensors, heat and touch, the whole nine yards. Except for that it’ll be made of metal, the fancy kind and it’ll probably bullet proof, so that’s a plus.” 

Bucky gawks at him, and really hopes his face doesn’t look as dumbfounded as he feels. Thankfully, Steve steps in in his stead. 

“I’m sorry, we’re just meeting you, and you already have all of these ideas for making Bucky an arm? You’ve consulted outsiders, without his consent no less?” Steve glares at Stark. “And what, you probably found access to his medical files, if you’re already thinking about how the damn thing’s going to attach.” 

Stark scrunches up his face. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. Hey, JARVIS?” 

“Yes, sir?” A British voice slinks down from the ceiling, and even Natasha lets surprise filter onto her face. 

“Did I violate my consultant contract by getting Barnes’ medical information last night?” 

“Yes, sir,” the voice says, and Bucky searches for the speakers, unable to find any. “As well as several local and national laws, which I told you repeatedly. You proceeded to key in the override code three times anyways.” 

“Hmm, I don’t remember that,” Tony says, eyes narrowed. “Must have been really into the moment.” 

“You were on hour 37 with no sleep at that point, sir.” 

“Gotta stop doing that, you should really remind me.” 

The pause that JARVIS takes before responding tells Bucky that it’s likely he’d done just that the night before. 

“As you wish, sir.” 

“Well, whoops, my bad,” Tony says, hands spreading in front of him, grinning wryly. “But hey, I’ve got them now, might as well put them to use, right?” The stare Bucky’s giving him prompts him to add more. “And okay, I won’t do anything that might be considered invasive without your consent, yeah? JARVIS, prevent me from doing this again.” 

“Of course, sir. Specifics would be helpful.” 

“Don’t attempt to access any more of James Barnes’ medical files without explicit, spoken consent,” Natasha jumps in, and Bucky turns to her in surprise. “Additionally, further research into the nature of the limb loss is restricted, as is access to any physical or psychological therapy records.” She looks at Bucky and Steve, scrutinizing their expressions. “Mr. Stark can research with only the information he has at this time, and any further proposals should be presented at a prearranged meeting. And Mr. Barnes has the right to deny Mr. Stark access at any point, or modify this agreement.” 

Stark is looking at Natasha as though she might begin tearing the walls down around them. “Well alright, lawyer lady. Welcome to Team Keep Tony in Line. Meet the president of the club, JARVIS. He’s also my A.I.” 

“Ms. Romanov, it is a pleasure.” Natasha inclines her head, then JARVIS adds, “Corporal Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, a joy as well. Any time you are here, feel free to request my assistance.” 

Bucky glances at Steve, who responds for the both of them. “Nice to meet you, JARVIS. And please, not Corporal, not Sergeant. We’re no longer with the Army.” 

“Of course, Mr. Rogers. Now, Mr. Barnes, I believe at this point I require your consent for the stipulations Ms. Romanov has outlined. Verbal response is acceptable, and I can also compile and print a transcript of this conversation for future record, should you so desire.” 

Bucky’s being addressed by an incredibly human sounding Artificial Intelligence, talking to a billionaire, and is suddenly possibly soon to be in possession of a state of the art prosthetic. He doesn’t know quite what to say, other than, “You have my consent, for now.” 

“Wonderful,” Stark and JARVIS say simultaneously, the former clapping his hands together, the latter adding an excessively polite _sir_ at the end. 

“If that’s all….” Maria says, eyeing Stark. 

“Yes, yes of course, proceed with the hitting and the punching and the enjoying of my amazingly advanced facilities,” Stark says. “I’ll be seeing you all around.” 

He turns on his heel and strides from the room. Bucky can hear him muttering something about people not knowing what’s good for them, both hands gesturing in the air in front of him. 

“Well,” Natasha says when Stark is out of the room. “He’s absolutely atrocious, isn’t he?” 

She shoots Bucky a grin, and he can’t help the laugh that tickles its way out of his throat. The corners of her mouth widen further, and she turns to Hill. “I think we’re ready now.” 

* * *

Clint pulls back, exhales, then releases. His arrow flies true, straight towards the hanging target 100 yards away. He reaches into the quiver at his back, knocks another arrow to the bow, releases, then repeats once, twice, three more times, all before the first arrow comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of the air, colliding with a pulsing red shield thrown up in front of the target. Wanda stands below, hands raised, concentration furrowing her brow. As each progressive arrow strikes her shield its glow pulses, weakens, finally breaking for the last arrow to slice through, momentum slowing just enough that it only taps the target before falling to the ground. 

“That was good!” Clint calls, pitching his voice across the range section of the gym. “It only lasted through four yesterday! And we’ve been going for a while already today.” 

Wanda shakes her head. “Again!” 

“Alternating, this time,” he yells, and pulls back. This round he goes slower, pausing for two breaths between each release. He adjusts his aim between the target from before and its twin, hanging down from the ceiling with about 10 yards between them. Wanda has her arms outstretched in both directions, her eyes and focus tracking Clint’s projectiles. Red blooms billow around each of the targets, flickering in and out of existence as she switches between focal points. They make it through 12 arrows when the first one gets through, though Wanda continues to shield the targets for another 6 breaths before her hands slip to her sides, chest rising and falling quickly. 

“That was great,” Clint exudes, jogging towards her after swinging his bow over his shoulder. Wanda brings her head up and sends him an expansive, genuine smile—the largest, he thinks, he’s ever seen her give. When he gets to her he impulsively grabs her around the waist and lifts, spinning her around. Her hair twirls out behind her and she laughs, rich and full. 

“You were incredible,” Clint says as he sets her down. “You’ve come so far.” She smiles up at him, eyes twinkling and he thinks for a second before adding, “I’m very proud of you.” 

Pride is a funny thing, Clint knows. Best when born from within, all too easily used to manipulate when desired from others. He’s careful to say it to his students at the center, lest they learn to rely on him for approval. Sometimes, though, he thinks they need it. Pride, fulfilling someone’s expectations, being told you’ve done a job well, can help someone feel a sense of success, of belonging. And belonging might just be what Wanda needs right now. 

Wanda’s smile grows even brighter and there’s a crinkle to the corners of her eyes that Clint is glad to have put there. “I didn’t think I could do that,” she says. “I stopped 13.” 

“Lucky 13, some cultures say,” Clint adds, bumping her shoulder with his fist. They walk towards the exit, pausing when they reach the top of the range. “Alright, are you done for the day? I’m going to stick around for a few before I need to get to work.” 

“I am done, I think,” Wanda replies. “Thank you for doing this with me, Clint.” 

“Of course,” Clint says, then shoots finger guns at her as she waves at him, walking backwards. “I’m here for you.” 

She chuckles and turns to leave, almost colliding with Steve, who is entering the gym space with Bucky in tow. Steve chuckles, then side steps. Clint sees Bucky do the same, but in the wrong direction. He and Wanda move in the same direction, again, then once more, engaging in the time-honored dance of the awkward. Bucky stops and raises his hand with a grin Clint didn’t know his mouth was capable of making. 

“You first,” he says, stepping to the side and sweeping his arm back as though making way for royalty. “MVPs of the gym get priority clearance, after all.” 

Wanda laughs, loud and bright, and curtsies dramatically before leaving. 

Clint smiles, then bends to pick up his bow. It’s special, to see Wanda so open and happy. He raises his hand in greeting at Steve and Bucky and watches them walk over to the sparring mat. In the three weeks since they’d accepted SHIELD’s invitation, he’s seen Wanda open up in tiny increments, a flower turning her face to the sun of acceptance and comfort. Interestingly, outside of himself and Nat, Wanda seems to be most comfortable with Bucky. He’s empathetic with her in ways that had at first surprised Clint, often intentionally sitting beside her at meetings, acting downright silly with her at times, reminiscent of how one might treat a younger sister. 

Clint checks his quiver and decides to retrieve arrows first before re-engaging with a simulation. He walks the outskirts of the room, gathering shafts from where they are deeply embedded in targets along walls, or on the ground after being deflected by Wanda’s shields. He presses the button that makes the airborne targets descend, then collects arrows from there, too. Job done, he walks back to his starting point, arrows in hand. In the corner, Steve and Bucky are getting ready, Steve wrapping Bucky’s knuckles with tape. They’re too far away for Clint to make out dialogue, but he can see traded grins, and reads their body language as casual and light when Steve steps back, bouncing on his feet. 

They’re good people, Steve and Bucky. Both so concerned with doing the right thing, so concerned with taking care of the team, of each other. That much is clear to Clint in what’s been said at therapy, in how they interact with others on a daily basis. Clint knows they both got out of the military—Army, he thinks—not long before he met them, and that it has something to do with realizing that the US government wasn’t doing the right thing by sending them overseas. He laughs wryly under his breath; how strong willed they both must be, to quit a job they’d spent years in for something as virtuous and honorable, yet hard-to-define as ‘the right thing’. He wonders what they’d think of Clint before he’d met Natasha, running around with a skeevy circus, only the faintest hint of a moral compass. He guesses it doesn’t much matter now, though. He knows they’re not too impressed with Clint the grown-up, try as he might. 

Across the room, Bucky and Steve are now trading blows, though quick grins and quips still flow between them. Bucky pairs a solid right hook with a sweep of his left leg under Steve’s right, sending him tumbling to the ground. Clint hears a taunting, “Come on, punk,” before Bucky extends his hand, pulling a laughing Steve to his feet. It’s sweet, is what it is, how Bucky cares for Steve, for Wanda. 

Clint turns away. _Sweet_ , when only two weeks ago he’d thought he’d never see an expression that wasn’t a frown on Bucky’s face. He shakes his head to clear it and brings up his bow. He inhales, pulls back, exhales, and releases. 

* * *

Barton dashes into the room, a ratty purple backpack over his shoulder. He tries to skid to a stop at the chair left open for him next to Natasha and trips over a computer cord, instead. His arms windmill for a second before he manages to grab onto the back of Natasha’s chair, tipping over the arm and landing with a thump, legs splayed. Bruce startles at the noise, blinking up from his phone. “I’m not late, am I?” Barton asks, out of breath. 

Bucky stares, nonplussed. How can one person be so simultaneously clumsy and capable? 

Natasha’s eyes tilt as though to hint at humor and she whacks him in the back of the head. “No, idiot, you’re not late. You’re got a solid 13 seconds to spare.” 

“I’m golden, then,” Barton says, putting his arms behind his head. “Sorry, hectic day at the center. We were dealing with the Food Bank, it was a mess, and I think I spent at least half an hour with my arms full of hormonal stressed out teenage girls whose plans were messed up.” He widens his eyes in mock horror. 

Wanda giggles from her seat across the table. “You must be so good at handling that, Clint.” 

“I’ll be honest,” Steve says, “I can’t picture you with kids.” 

Bucky can’t quite, either. He’s learned a little about Barton over the past few weeks, and knows now that he works at a youth center, running an after school program for disadvantaged teens. He’s not sure what all that entails, but he wonders if the teenagers see Barton as an actual adult or just as one of them, with how he acts. Hell, some of those kids probably have crushes on him, the cute older guy that makes them laugh.

“He’s amazing with them,” Natasha says, surprisingly serious. 

“Nat.” Barton looks down, fidgeting in his seat.

“You are, and you know it.” She frowns at him, and pokes him in the side. “Don’t let your lack of self-esteem take your biggest point of pride from you. You pour your heart and soul into those kids.” 

Barton is saved from responding when Agent Coulson walks in, a foot-high stack of binders in hand. “Glad to see you all today. We’ve got a few specific strategies to go through, some general roles to outline. These are more than that, and we’ll keep referencing them over the next few weeks.” He slides the binders down the conference room table towards them and moves to turn on the projector. 

Bucky opens his, rifling through what looks like a handbook discussing mission parameters and protocols. Some of what he sees looks similar to training he’d gone through when he was a part of the Army, though the terminology is different in many cases. There are diagrams and definitions, paragraphs of texts to explain the nuances behind in-field decisions, an introduction to covert operations with promises of corresponding practical training. Steve is next to him, binder open to the first page. Bucky snorts; he’s sure Steve will read every single word in order multiple times before the end of the week. 

“Aw, man,” Barton groans, “there are tests in here!” 

“There are, indeed,” Coulson says with a glint in his eye. Bucky can tell that Coulson likes Barton; for all his complaining and continual near tardiness, Barton has worked just as hard as the rest of them since they agreed to join SHIELD's anti-Hydra mission. “So you better pay attention.” 

Barton morosely flips a few pages before his eyes catch on something and he blurts, “Wait, this is sign—you’re having the team learn ASL?” 

Coulson nods as he cues up the slides for the day. “After observing the effectiveness of nonverbal communication between you and Natasha, we thought it’d be a good idea for everyone to become versed in some basics that might benefit future missions. It will be similar to the hand signs many military branches utilize, but more suited to both contact and no contact missions.” 

“Look at that,” Natasha says to Barton, “you’re useful for once.” 

He gives her a single finger salute that everyone at the table knows the meaning of. Wanda bursts into laughter, covering her mouth with both hands, Bruce cracks a grin, and even Bucky finds his lips twisting up. 

“Alright, alright,” Coulson says. “Let’s focus in, team. We’re going to start basic, today. Standard mission roles, followed by regulation team formations and expectations. Buckle in.” 

* * *

When they take a break an hour later, Bucky stands, stretching his arm over his head. Steve looks up at him, eyes questioning. “I’m going to walk for a bit, wanna come with?” Bucky asks him. 

“I’m good. I want to go over that last formation we were on,” Steve says, already turning back to his binder. 

Bucky walks out of the room with a route in mind. In the three weeks that have passed, he’s gotten to know the layout of Stark Tower, between physical and tactical training sessions and visits to Stark’s lab. He circles the conference room floor once along the perimeter where there are less offices, less likely to be any employees in the early evening. He dips quickly into a break room to get water before heading back towards the conference room, intending to make another lap. As he nears the room, he hears voices, and slows, pausing a hallway away. 

“He was so brave, Nat. You should’ve seen him.” It’s Barton, and there’s a rich, reverential warmth to his voice. “I think he had a whole speech planned out, though of course that went to shit the second he opened his mouth.” 

“From what you’ve told me, that’s Peter for you.” Natasha’s voice is warm, too, a warmth reserved for Barton and sometimes, Bucky’s observed, for Wanda. 

“I just feel so honored that he would trust me. Me, Nat!” Barton’s voice has taken on an incredulous tone. “He didn’t even know that I’m not straight, he just knew that I wouldn’t judge him.” 

“Well, he’s right about that,” Natasha says. “But you shouldn’t feel surprised. You’ve done all you can to make that an inclusive space, to make those kids feel loved and supported.” 

“I guess,” Barton says, and Bucky can imagine him shaking his head, doubt contorting his features. “It just means a lot, you know. It’s like, I don’t know, maybe getting kids to this point, to where they feel safe enough to ask me questions they wouldn’t ask their parents, to let me be a sounding board for their fears, their worries…it’s like—this is what I do it for, Nat.” 

“I know,” Natasha says, and Bucky’s enhanced hearing can just pick up movement, perhaps the settling of an arm across shoulders. “You’re a good one, Clint Barton, and your kids know it.” 

“My life would have been so different if I had had someone to talk to when I was 16,” Barton says, his voice quieter, small. 

“That’s probably true,” Natasha responds. “And I wish you could have. But, you didn’t, and as a result, you’re able to be that person for Peter, for Gwen, for America, for all the kids that have gone through the center for the past five years. What is that American saying—” she affects an exaggerated southern accent that Bucky _cannot_ imagine actually coming out of her mouth, “Do not cry over spilled milk, child.” 

Barton laughs. “Na _tasha_ , you’ve been an American citizen for years now, and your family immigrated when you were a baby. You can’t always pull the Russian card.” 

Natasha lets loose a stream of rapid fire Russian that says otherwise, and Bucky hears Barton laugh again as they move back towards the conference room. It’s a nice laugh, smooth and sunny. He follows a few steps behind, entering not long after they do. 

“Good break?” Steve asks when he sits down. 

“Great,” Bucky says absently, and watches Barton pull out his phone, gesturing for Wanda to come join him and Natasha. He’s showing them pictures from the food drive, pointing out kids he’s proud of, describing the work they’d done, and how no, really, it was all the kids, promise. 

Bucky sees Steve glance at him, then over across the table. “He’s a good one, isn’t he?” Steve asks in a low voice. 

Bucky thinks about the conversation he’s just overheard, the work he’s seen Barton put in to the Avengers Initiative, the way he brings out a warm side from Natasha, the smile he puts on Wanda’s face. He thinks about the way Barton’s been clearly trying to live up to Coulson’s expectations, and how he obviously doesn’t want to let down anyone. He thinks about Barton’s smile, his warmth for everyone around, how he manages to set a room at ease with a stumble or a self-deprecating joke. He thinks about how often Barton’s tried to engage Bucky in conversation, and how Bucky hasn’t noticed anything like pity or derision in Barton’s gaze whenever he looks at him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, brow twitching downward as a sensation that feels horrifyingly like attraction takes root in his chest. “I think he really is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my original outline of this chapter it said "TRAINING MONTAGE!!!!! WAIT WTF DO SPIES EVEN NEED TO BE TRAINED IN." 
> 
> (also, that said, if you're like, wait, I need more training montage, cause lets be real it'd get at least double this screen time in a movie, fear not, these little know-nothing civilians will be learning more later)


	4. Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey you know how they met in therapy? They should probably keep going._

Bucky glances around the room and decides he isn’t sure Stark isn’t pushing for some sort of mid-life crisis inspired frat house.

They’re in one of the living areas of the new Avengers floor Stark had casually renovated in his tower during the past few weeks, citing ease of access to training facilities, team cohesion, coffee on demand and more. Banner had all but moved in, especially after Stark had assured him he was already in the process of designing a containment unit for Banner’s less social side. Bucky isn’t sure if anyone else has decided to take him up on the offer; as skittish as they all are, he’d be surprised if they have. He definitely won’t be caught spending the night there, though his tactician of a best friend had definitely implied that it just made sense to have a base of operations. Bucky had argued in the moment, but sitting here now, he can’t quite deny that it was convenient; he’d arrived early in the morning for a training session with Steve before meeting with Stark to tentatively discuss the prosthetic, and now, after a break he’d spent outside at a nearby park, the whole crew was gathered for their weekly therapy session.

He shifts in his seat and has to admit, if just to himself, that yeah, these couches are a lot more comfortable than the folding chairs at Brooklyn Counseling Connections.

“Hey JARVIS, are we good to start?” Sam asks from where he’s reclining back on his hands on the floor. He’d told them he was more comfortable that way, but Bucky doesn’t quite believe he isn’t just trying to set them at ease by putting himself physically lower than most of them.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson. As described last time, this room is in a complete lockdown. After your next verbal confirmation, no recordings will be taken, nor will anyone be able to access the room without explicit permission.” JARVIS’s voice floats down around them, soothing.

“Great, thank you, confirmed,” Sam says with a slight chuckle. He looks around at everyone. “Man, that’s going to take some getting used to.”

Bucky lifts an eyebrow in agreement, right as Barton says from where he’s sprawled on a couch, twirling an arrow inches away from the face of an unflappable Natasha, “I can’t decide if I’m in love with JARVIS or slightly disturbed by him.”

“Not sure why those are mutually exclusive,” Bucky mutters. It’s a new thing he’s decided to try, this whole joking thing. It’s been a while since he’s been not depressed enough to make jokes, so sometimes they still fall really, really flat. The look Steve shoots him tells him that this might be one of those times, if the _are you crazy_ in his eyes is anything to go by.

The delighted crow of laughter from Barton, though, says otherwise. “I mean valid,” Barton snickers, raising onto his elbow to turn crinkled eyes towards Bucky, smile wide on his face. Bucky finds himself grinning back.

And oh, that’s interesting.

“Ow, Nat!” Barton yelps, flinching backwards as Natasha jabs him in the shin.

“We are here for therapy, idiot, not for you to confess your creepy obsession for the resident A.I.” Natasha pinches his leg again, and Barton flails as half-heartedly as an overturned baby panda.

“She’s right, of course,” Sam says. “Let’s get down to it. When we met last week, I sent you off with homework. Hopefully you all took the time to think about your answers, or even write them down like I suggested. To remind you, I asked you to think about the questions: in light of joining the Avengers Initiative, what do you hope to be? What are your hopes for your new role? I’m not going to force you to share this tonight, though there will be chances to later, but I want you to be honest with yourself in this reflection. Take a minute to think about your answers again.”

Bucky looks down at the notecard in his hand which he’d written on last night in preparation of the session. _I hope to be someone I don’t hate. I hope to believe in what I do. I hope to trust myself._ When writing, other, prettier words, ones like pride, acceptance, and worthiness had passed through his brain, but there’s no way Bucky can see himself admitting to wishing for things as far-fetched as those.

“Now, I want you to reflect on how I phrased the questions tonight, on my word choice. I asked, what do you _hope_ for? Not what do you expect, not what do you wish for, not even what do you want—what do you hope for.” Sam looks around their group, pausing for emphasis. “Hoping is different than just wanting something. Hoping for something is braver, more vulnerable, more real. When you hope for something, you allow yourself to kindle optimism, to take a desire, hold it close, and pursue it. Your hopes lie central to who you are, and who, at your core, you believe yourself capable of becoming.”

Bucky studies his card again. A few years ago, he would’ve had no problem believing himself capable of being someone he didn’t hate. Now, though? He’s not sure. In an armchair nearby, Steve is nodding along with what Sam is saying, occasionally jotting things in his sketchbook. Bucky can just see a doodle of a figure with their hands on their hips and a cartoon speech bubble that says ‘ _I hope!’_

“Now, with that in mind, I want you to think about this: would the person who came to group a month ago for the first session have hoped for the same things? If so, why? If not, why not? Take some time, write down your thoughts. In about five minutes I’ll ask you to share out whatever you’re comfortable with sharing.”

Bucky clicks open his pen and regrets not being at a table. Maybe there was one thing that Brooklyn Counseling Connections had going for it after all. _I hope to be someone I don’t hate_. A month has passed, and super powers or not, Bucky still doesn’t like who he is. He checks that one off without adding anything.

 _I hope to believe in what I do_. This one catches him by surprise. A month ago, he didn’t have a job, and didn’t really have many prospects of finding one, wouldn’t have even started looking until the disability pay wore out. Month-ago-Bucky likely wouldn’t have been able to imagine the tentative trust he’s in the process of building here at SHIELD, on this new team of misfits. Month-ago-Bucky didn’t believe in much of anything. Does he believe in things now?

Bucky frowns and glances around the room. Natasha is looking up at the ceiling, bottom lip twisted between her teeth. Barton is looking at his paper as though his heart is breaking. Wanda is sitting on the floor, resting her head on the coffee table, tilted just enough so she can write. Bucky sees wetness pooling at the corner between her eye and the bridge of her nose.

Steve is writing quickly now, earnestness clear on his face as he underlines something in bold strokes. Banner is nodding to himself, gaze periodically shifting in front of him as though tracking a conversation. Sam is watching them all, and catches Bucky’s eyes with a slight smile.

These are six people at their most vulnerable, exposed, open, and trying. After a month together in therapy sessions, physical training drills, and logistics meetings, Bucky is pretty sure he knows these people better than he’s known just about anyone outside of Steve or his family.

He looks back at his paper. If believing in his job means believing in the people he works with, he might just be moving in that direction.

 _I hope to trust myself_. Month-ago-Bucky would probably have written the same thing, and today-Bucky sure as hell knows he still doesn’t trust himself. He only just trusts the people around him, and then only so much, but himself? Not a chance. He thinks about what Sam said about how hoping for something means you believe you can become it. Month-ago-Bucky likely would have scoffed at the thought of today-Bucky able to trust himself and his decisions. A month ago, Bucky was so disgusted by what he’d done and how long he’d lived without questioning orders, how long he’d consistently made the wrong decisions, over and over, there’s no way he’d have thought he’d ever be able to trust himself again.

But now? Maybe. Someday, maybe.

“Okay, that’s about five minutes,” Sam says, breaking through Bucky’s contemplation. “I want you to choose one thing that you thought about—one thing you hope for, or hope to be, then tell us why it changed or stayed the same. Anyone care to go first?”

Steve glances around before volunteering, making sure he’s not silencing anyone else before going first. “I still hope to make the right decisions, and I think that’s because doing what’s right has always been important to me. It’s changed a little bit because I think I have more responsibility than ever, which makes how I define what’s right even more important.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Sam says. “Pick who goes next.”

“Um, Bruce,” Steve says after frantically checking to see if anyone would make eye contact. Bucky knows well enough to avoid that mistake.

“Before I used to hope that I wouldn’t hurt the people I cared about. I still feel that way, but now that I know I can do so much actual damage, it’s bigger, more important. It used to just be my emotions that would get in the way. Now…” he shakes his head, trails off. “Clint, you next.”

Barton shifts, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hope I don’t let people down. A month ago I just had different people to let down.” He turns to avoid Natasha’s reprimanding swat and makes eye contact with Sam instead. He sighs. “And I’m over here kicking myself because I know that it shouldn’t always be about other people’s expectations, but here I am, still my big concern. Wanda, your go.”

“I think I am still hoping for the same things,” Wanda muses, “but I think I am redefining what those things mean to me. Bucky?”

Bucky closes his eyes, opens them again. Goes for it. “I think I’m closer to allowing myself to hope for things at all, now.” He trains his gaze on the fireplace. “Natasha?”

“I don’t think the Natasha who started therapy a month ago would have dreamed that she could be hoping for what I hope for now,” Natasha says quietly.

The fire crackles soothingly as they rest in reflection.

“Thanks, guys,” Sam says after a few moments.“I appreciate your honesty. I wanted to frame this conversation about hope today in this way to remind you that you are still you, no matter what enhancements you now have. Your powers don’t remake or redefine you unless you choose to let them. Who you hope to be might look different from the outside, but at your core, where those hopes lie and grow and change, you’re still the same people who walked into counseling a month ago. Having these powers doesn’t automatically redefine your worth. If you’re feeling better, more optimistic, more hopeful, that’s because you are putting in the work to actively change, to become the person you’ve always hoped to be.”

“These powers haven’t changed you, and _can’t_ change you. You change you. It’s your choice.”

The flames in the fireplace flicker, throwing dancing shadows around the room. The fiery tendrils are in constant flux, arms extending and shrinking, flowing from shape to shape. They’ll die down eventually, turning to embers then ash, but for the moment they’re entrancing; powerful and striking, delicate and dangerous, utterly in control of constant chaotic change. Bucky watches them move, wondering at his own changes, his own state of flux.

* * *

Clint crouches low along the roof line, eyeing the rear entrance to the arcade in the alley. It’s one of those old ones, a hold out from the nineties, a novelty that people now come to visit to remember what it was like to be a kid, when this part of Brooklyn wasn’t as trendy as it is now. Today, people will pay through the nose to get tarnished tokens that they can press into loud, flashing machines for 45 second long games that honestly, aren’t even that interesting. In Clint’s opinion, anyways. He squints his eyes and tries to imagine what all of these thirty-something people get out of playing Space Invaders again. Surely there’s an app for that?

There’s a tiny flash of light in the corner of Clint’s eyes from the side of the building; Natasha is ready, giving Clint a minute warning. He exhales and brings his bow up, withdrawing an arrow from his quiver, held just so between his index and middle fingers.

The streetlamp at the opening of the alley goes dark, and there’s a crash that sounds something like a car being broken into.

A few moments later, a shaggy, dark-haired man pokes his head out from around the door, peering into the darkness. He mutters something, then hesitantly begins to step out into the alley. Clint breathes in. The door starts to swing shut behind the dark-haired man, and he turns his head to the side. Clint exhales.

The man jolts, a knock out arrow protruding from high up on his left thigh. He has just enough time to lower his arm wonderingly to the shaft of the arrow before he stumbles, falls, out cold.

Natasha’s behind him, gloved hand catching the door a millimeter before it latches shut. She slips in.

Clint keeps watch as Natasha does her work inside. He’s situated perfectly at the corner of the rooftop diagonal to the alley behind the arcade, so he can just see the crumpled figure of the man and view any potential incoming visitors or bystanders along the street. He, Steve and Natasha had decided on the plan this morning, talking through options with Agent Coulson listening in. When they made a final decision, Coulson approved it, offering only one slight adjustment. The approving nod he’d given them had made Clint bask like a golden retriever being told he was a good boy, or so Natasha had said when they left the conference room.

“What?” He’d said, eyebrows raised and hands open. “It wasn’t even about me! Steve did most of the planning!”

Natasha had rolled her eyes, then reached up on her tiptoes to pat him none too gently on the head. “Who’s the bestest boy? You are!”

Agent Coulson is waiting for them back at Stark Tower, Steve long gone, only in for the strategizing. Coulson has been leaning heavily on Steve to develop his leadership capabilities, and Clint has got to admit, he really seems to have a knack for strategy and planning. Well, Clint’s not really sure he’s the type of person to know if Steve’s good at that or not, but so far all the missions Steve has had a hand in planning have gone well. Clint just does what he’s told, and so far it’s paid off.

A few cars rumble past on the street below. It’s nearing three in the morning, and while sure, New York is the city that never sleeps, Clint and Natasha have done enough recon in the area over the past week that they know when this part of town is, well, sleepiest.

Three more minutes pass, and the man in the alleyway doesn’t move an inch. The majority of the arrows in Clint’s quiver tonight have a tranquilizer on the end, developed by SHIELD for near instant effectiveness. From what Clint’s been told, Bruce has wheedled his way into SHIELD’s labs, and Clint thinks this new batch might have his influence on them. He looks down at the compact recurve in his palm. It had taken a lot of convincing (and several particularly showy displays in the range), but when Coulson finally relented and told Clint he’d be allowed to use his chosen weapon rather than the standard issue hand and long-range guns they wanted him to, Clint had immediately pitched all of the different arrowhead options he’d been thinking about since the explosion left him with better aim than he’d ever dreamed of. Coulson left with a considering expression on his face, and the next morning Clint woke to an email with 64 attachments and a demand to ‘ _get to my lab immediately, I’ve got toys’_ from one Tony Stark.

Besides the tranquilizer arrows, Clint’s got one that’ll go off like a compressed grenade and two with tiny, tiny grappling webs that shoot out upon impact, so that when aimed just right, they trap limbs and confine targets for, well, whatever reason targets need to be confined for.

Another minute slips by, and Clint starts the countdown. In 15 seconds, Natasha will be out of the building, intel in hand, and the downed man will be leaning up against the side of the building, ready to wake at dawn with hopefully (if the tranquilizer works as promised) no recollection of how he’d arrived there.

In thirty seconds, Clint will be striding to the edge of the building to the fire escape, slipping silently over the edge as Natasha emerges from the alley, cat-like and quick.

In forty-five seconds, an old burgundy sedan will trundle down the street, pausing briefly as the stop light turns red. 

In sixty seconds, two figures strolling with hands linked and hips bumping, the taller one with a gym duffle bag over their shoulder, will laugh and slide together into the rear seat of the sedan.

In seventy seconds, the stop light will turn green, and the sedan will shift into gear, carrying its cargo into the night.

In one hundred seconds, Clint will lean his head back against the headrest, slant his eyes over at Natasha and say, “Well, what do you think? Smooth enough that Coulson might stop drinking dairy?”

In one hundred and five seconds, Natasha will give him a small frown, eyes narrowed.

In one hundred and ten seconds, Clint will break into a grin and say, “No more dairy because they’ll stop sending us on milk runs!”

In one hundred and fifteen seconds, Natasha will punch him in the shoulder.

* * *

Bucky walks into The Prince of Wales and it feels like he’s stepping back in time. There’s a familiar buzz of chatter and clinking glasses, and he’s hit with a wave of something that feels like nostalgia, twisted tight with trepidation. He hasn’t been back to The Prince of Wales since his last official Army leave almost two years ago, but it’s like nothing has changed. The lights shine low, amber glow hiding the worst of the stains while amplifying the old Scottish feel, set by dark wood hardtop counters, deep red seating, and the pervasive sweet smell of whiskey and ale.

He grabs a seat at the bar and motions the barkeep over, asking for a Guinness on tap. This, too, feels familiar; Steve had laughed, at first, when Bucky began exclusively ordering UK beers when at The Prince, before eventually abandoning his Sam Adams to join him in what Bucky had sarcastically called an immersive international experience. The Guiness arrives and Bucky takes a sip, head shaking slightly. God, the man he’d been before had found it so easy to just…have fun. He’d made his own amusement in the stupidest, simplest of places.

He’s meeting his old partner here, despite Steve’s protests that the guy would only bring bad news. It’s a test, of sorts, one that Bucky thinks he’ll be able to pass. He’s been feeling better lately, about himself and his place in the world, and Sam has encouraged them to see how they feel about things from their past, in light of the changes their enhancements have brought to their lives. The last time they’d been on leave, Rumlow had been too, and he’d enjoyed the experience of the Brooklyn bar, teasing Bucky and Steve about their hometown loyalty. It had been teasing, right? Bucky frowns. Mocking wasn’t the word, was it?

He pulls out his phone while he waits, checks his email. There’s another one from Stark which he scans briefly before remarking it as unread again so he can read it more in depth later. It’s about a few more tweaks to the design of the prosthetic, now that Banner has joined the Stark-Cho partnership. Bucky had been a little concerned at first when Banner had requested he be allowed to help with the design and operation, but several hours spent with JARVIS and miles of internet research had assured him Banner would be an asset to the team.

The operation is tentatively set for three weeks from today, and Bucky doesn’t know quite how to feel about that. On one hand, after the doctors had had to amputate his left arm, he’d refused to even talk to prosthetists, verbally shoving Steve out of the hospital room when he’d showed up with pamphlets and a sincere expression. In the months since, it’s not like he has grown to ‘accept’ or ‘embrace’ his disability, far from it. He still hates how it makes him feel incompetent, like he stands out, like he’s less than who he was before. Thing is, though, he knows it’s those same feelings that he wallows in, that he luxuriates in miserably whenever he feels the worst about himself. He doesn’t deserve to feel anything but incompetent, isolated, and like the scum of the earth. It’s a penance, of a sort, this mixed up self-loathing and denial of improvement. If he allows himself to make any move towards healing, towards becoming normal, which getting a prosthetic would undoubtedly be, he’d essentially forgive himself, and he struggles to find that acceptable.

On the other hand, (he ignores the voice that pipes up in his mind about him only having one hand, which sounds oddly like Barton’s gentle teasing) he knows there’s actually nothing wrong with accepting the prosthetic. He hasn’t talked to anyone about his decision outside of Steve, who keeps trying to bring it up, no matter how often Bucky tells him that he doesn’t want his opinion on something so personal.He knows, he _knows_ that if he talks to people about it, everyone would tell him it’s the right thing to do. He’s run through a mental conversation with Sam about self-acceptance and growth so many times he can practically recite the fantasy therapist’s advice word for word.

In the logical part of his brain, he knows that regaining his limb won’t suddenly take away all of the guilt he feels. He knows that allowing himself this help, this gift, won’t make him forget the pain he’s caused others. He knows that having two functional hands won’t make him stray from the path of absolution he’s on. He knows all of these things, and yet.

“Hey,” Bucky says to the bartender, who’s standing still during a brief lull between customers. “Why do you think people listen to sad music when they’re already sad? Why don’t they just listen to something else that’ll make them feel better?” 

The bartender glances at him and picks up a pint glass as someone down the bar shouts for another round. “I dunno, but I’ve always thought people like that were real stupid.” He tilts the glass underneath a tap, golden liquid sliding smoothly down the side before he caps it, a perfect quarter inch of foam bobbing at the rim. “It’s a choice. Choose to change the damn radio station.”

Bucky huffs into his glass as the bartender takes the pint to the far end of the bar. He’s sure Steve would agree with the guy, probably nod his head in tandem and call Bucky stupid for refusing to make the choice that would help him get better.

“Well you’re looking just as awfully depressed as usual, Barnes,” a gruff voice says as a heavy body sits up on the stool next to Bucky, snapping their fingers to get the bartender’s attention.

“Hey, Rumlow,” Bucky says. “I know it’s been awhile, but I sure as fuck don’t remember being this depressed for the entire three years we were in Afghanistan together.”

Brock catches the bartender’s eyes and points at Bucky’s glass before looking at Bucky. “Yeah, maybe that’s true. I guess it was just after the shootout that you started to look so terrible.”

Bucky lets his eyes stay shut for a moment after he blinks to try to tamp down his emotions. He had forgotten how Brock always referred to the night Bucky lost his arm as a shootout, as though the four of them storming into that tiny apartment, Brock taking point and the shots that killed the woman, and the subsequent moments of panic as the child stumbled into the kitchen, dropping the shotgun that didn’t even make sense to be in Afghanistan, accidental discharge a one in a million chance, was something exciting, dramatic. Damn, what the fuck is Bucky doing here tonight?

“Yeah,” Bucky says, taking a long drag from his glass, “I got real fucked in the head after that.”

Brock gives a stilted laugh at that, as though he’s not sure if Bucky is making a joke or not. “So how’s Rogers, then? Still the self-righteous asshole who thinks he’s better than the rest of us?”

“I mean, he is better than the rest of us,” Bucky responds, feeling the need to defend Steve, who had been the one to start questioning the actions of their officers long before Bucky’s accident. Brock laughs, and Bucky tries to remember how he used to respond whenever his former teammates brought up Steve’s tendency to criticize the Army. Everything’s a little foggy through the haze of guilt he’s been stuck in for the past year, but he really, really hopes he’d stood up for Steve. It’s just that it was always so much easier to go along with whatever Brock said, rather than try to start a conflict that could’ve led to weeks of tension on base. Surely he’d done the right thing sometimes, though, right?

Bucky shakes his head to clear it. “But he’s doing good. We’re actually working together again.”

“Oh yeah?” Brock asks, slouching back on the stool. “Where at?”

Bucky lets himself grin, tries to dredge up some of the casual camaraderie he and Brock had once shared. “For the government, actually. Can’t tell you which branch, though.”

“No shit,” Brock exclaims, eyebrows rising. “The two of you? Really? I thought for sure you’d defect and flee to communist Cuba or something. How the hell did they manage to convince Rogers to sign on?”

Bucky shrugs. “Oh, you know. He always wants to do the right thing, and they were pretty damn convincing.”

“Well shit,” Brock says, shaking his head. “I’ll have to tell the boys back on base. They’re not going to believe this. Rogers getting hoodwinked by the government again.” He sees Bucky frown at him. “What, do they have you convinced, too? You’ve gotta know that whatever bullshit reason you guys had for leaving us is probably still a thing for whatever CIA operation you’re involved in.”

Bucky smiles weakly. “I don’t know, we really think they’re doing it the right way.” Even as the words leave his mouth he knows how weak, how stupid they sound.

Brock’s eyes squeeze shut as he barks out a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re kidding me. There is no way that you idiots left the Army, claiming it was unethical and—what was it Rogers said in those rants—oppressive and should be defunded, only to get a job with some goddamn ABC operation and _not_ think you’re going to face the same things?” He wipes mirth from the corner of his eye. “Don’t mistake me, I still think you guys are wrong as fuck, but Jesus, that’s golden.”

Bucky’s gut twists as he recognizes some of his own concerns reflected in his former teammate’s words. He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Nah, man.”

Brock shifts in his seat, reaching into his back pocket to pull his wallet out, setting it on the bar top in front of them. As he does so, his tags fall out of his shirt and catch the light, and Bucky’s stomach contorts a little bit more.

“So how are the boys? You’re working with Rollins again, right?”

“That’s right,” Brock confirms. “He’s good. I’m sure you remember, such a dumbass, but we work together fine, now that I’m no longer being investigated for improper conduct or whatever bullshit. Maybe I’ll drag him along next time I force you into getting drinks with me when we’re on leave again.”

Bucky does remember how much of a dumbass Rollins is, and how even in the peak of Bucky’s denial about the corruption of the Army he’d hated Rollins for the racist, homophobic dick he was. He doesn’t respond to Brock’s proposal.

“And everyone else is fine, same old, same old,” Brock says. “Oh, I’ve got my hearing coming up soon. I was talking to Smith, that old guy from the 78th who was almost discharged when he killed a bunch of civilians a couple years ago, and he thinks I’ll be fine, what with the standing orders and presence of a clearly stolen American firearm. Captain says he thinks I’ll be fine, too, says he’ll back me up if needed.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and his words fail him. He’s suddenly very, very tired. He no longer knows how to play this game, no longer knows how to pretend that what Brock’s just said isn’t the antithesis to everything Bucky knows to be true, right, and good.

He throws back the final inch of his beer and turns to face Brock full on. Braces. “Don’t you think you deserve some kind of punishment for killing those women?” He hates that he never learned their names, that he can’t say their names and remember their humanity. He hates that they’re just another pair of unnamed Afgani casualties, buried in the staggering weight of American apathy.

Brock scoffs, eyebrows quirked high. “Barnes, I got my punishment. I was under investigation for 8 months, 3 of those on unpaid leave. I served my fucking time. You are not seriously trying to tell me you think I deserve to go to jail for doing my fucking job?”

“I mean, we didn’t have to go in there with guns blazing. It was just a tip from a neighbor, we didn’t have to—” 

Brock cuts him off with a hand. “Seriously? It’s been a year, and your pansy ass is still trying to tell me I did the wrong thing. I call you up to see how you’re doing, check in with my old teammate, and this is the fucking attitude you bring? Get off your high horse.”

“It’s not that you did something wrong, Rumlow, it’s that _we_ were in the wrong, everyone was, it’s not personal, it’s—” Bucky tries, faltering as Brock stands up.

“No. You don’t get to show up here to criticize me, especially not with you working for the CIA or whatever the fuck, you fucking hypocrite,” Brock spits, grabbing his wallet off the counter. “It’s not personal? Who’s the one with their ass on the line? Don’t tell me this isn’t personal.”

“It’s not, though,” Bucky says, nerves high in his throat. “I was just trying to talk about it.”

“Fuck you and your talking about it, Barnes,” Brock says. “I can’t believe what a pitiful excuse for a person you’ve become. Rogers must be so proud.” He shoves his stool against the bar and turns, shouldering his way through the pub and out the door.

Bucky watches Brock go, and imagines that he can see whatever little confidence and self-respect he’d managed to find over the past few months trailing after him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and puts his head down on the counter. His shoulder pinches.

* * *

Coulson is in the middle of a sentence when Clint realizes that he’s supposed to be at work. It’s not that he’s skipping out on any of his regular shifts—it’s a one Saturday a month LGBTQI+ club meeting that he’s a co-sponsor for, and he is 35 minutes late. His breath catches. This is the meeting Peter had been planning on coming to after confessing to Clint that he wasn’t sure if he was straight. Clint had told him that coming to the meeting might help him learn from his peers, help him figure things out in a safe space. Clint had promised he would be there when Peter had gotten up the courage to tell him he was nervous to go alone, he had _promised_.His brain freezes for a moment, a white static hum in his ears, then he is pushing away from the table, halfway to standing before anyone notices.

“Clint?” Coulson asks, concerned.

“Oh, fuck,” Clint says, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry, sorry, that was unprofessional, I just, sorry, I just really need to go.” He can feel the rest of the room staring at him. It’s the whole crew today, analyzing film from different operations and training modules.

Coulson frowns, shaking back his suit sleeve to look at his watch. “This meeting is going to last for another two hours. It’s been on the schedule for a week now.”

“I know, I’m sorry; I forgot about a commitment I had at work, it’s really important,” Clint stammers out, pinching in between his eyes. “It’s really important, and I’m sorry.”

“Can he make up the time later?” It’s Bucky who is asking, and Clint thinks he might have smiled if his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest, if sweat wasn’t gathering at his temple, if his pulse wasn’t racing a mile a minute, if there wasn’t this obscene combination of shame, fear, anxiety and panic swirling through his blood.

“And I will be able to go through my notes with him tonight,” Natasha adds, gesturing towards her precise handwriting.

“That’s…acceptable,” Coulson says, after a pause. “Expect my email with details later this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir, and thank you.” Clint’s hands shake as he hastily throws his binder and notes into his backpack. Shit, does he even have what he needs for the club meeting today?

“I’m sorry, guys,” he tells the room at large, attempting what he hopes comes across as a grateful expression in Natasha and Bucky’s general direction, then hightails it the fuck out of there.

* * *

When he arrives at the center out of breath, skidding through the doors, he already knows he’s too late. For all the things Clint is learning to love about being a part of SHIELD’s Avengers’ Initiative, having to get to and from Manhattan every day is not one of them. He scoffs to himself as he runs through the hallways, thinking of all of the movies and shows he’d seen about New York growing up; sure, maybe they mentioned New York traffic, but never did they accurately portray how damn long it takes to get from one part of town to another. He remembers the first time after moving to the city that he’d agreed to meet Natasha in upper Manhattan for dinner, how utterly bewildered he’d been when he finally arrived a solid hour late. Natasha had sighed at him before tilting her nose up and calling him a country boy. Well, it’s not like she was technically _wrong_.

Clint hears laughter coming out of the open door where the meeting was supposed to be. He turns in and sees that it’s definitely over; only Miles and Rebel remain, and Claire, the other sponsor, is helping them pick up chairs.

“Oh hey Mr. Clint,” Miles says when Clint steps in. “Where were you today?”

Claire has straightened, and there’s a frown across her brow. Clint winces, and raises his hands apologetically. “Something came up at my other job, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Miles says, turning to lean the two chairs he’s carrying against the wall.

“Yeah,” Rebel says from beside him as they stack another chair. “As long as you didn’t forget about us!”

Clint feels sick, but neither are looking at him, so they don’t see the lie on his face when he says, “Never, you guys are the most important thing to me, you know that.”

Claire sees his expression, though, and her frown deepens, mouth twisting. She studies him for a moment before clapping her hands together briskly. “Okay, Miles, Rebel, thank you so much for your help today. Miles, you did an awesome job with the check in, and Rebel I really appreciate how you were the first one to start the conversation about the LGBT clubs in schools. You guys need to skedaddle, Mr. Barton and I will take care of the rest of this.”

Clint smiles at both kids as they leave, giving Miles the handshake the boy had taught him a few years when he first came to the center. He watches them leave, then turns to Claire, who’s watching him closely.

“You want to explain what happened, Clint?” she asks, arms crossed.

He lets out a sigh and sinks into one of the remaining fold out chairs, head in his hands. He breathes at the ground for a moment, then looks up at her. “I really screwed up, Claire. I just…made a mistake. I’ve got this new job, and I got my schedules mixed up. I told them I could be there today, completely forgetting that today was the club meeting for the month.”

Claire exhales loudly, then comes to sit next to him. “I know you’ve been a little scattered lately, but damn it, Clint, I thought this was important to you.”

“It is,” Clint protests, ears ringing. “You know I love this job; I love these kids, I love sponsoring this club with you.”

“Yeah,” Claire says, “I’ve always thought that about you, but lately you just haven’t been showing that. You didn’t even respond to my texts when I tried to see where you were this afternoon.”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t have my phone on me, and then when I left to come here I didn’t get it cause I was in a rush.” Clint knows how lame, how unbelievable it must sound, but how is he supposed to tell her that he’s required to check in all digital devices for a scan whenever he gets onto SHIELD premises, and that he legitimately just forgot it when dashing out?

Claire is silent for a moment, mouth tightening, before she responds. “You’ve got to do better than this. The kids don’t deserve this from you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Clint says, voice low.

“I’m not the one who needs to hear that.” Claire taps Clint on the shoulder to get him to look at her. “You know that, don’t you? You’re a model for these kids. You can’t show them that it’s okay to skip meetings, you can’t show them that it’s okay to be late or disorganized, and you really, really, can’t show them that it’s okay to not apologize for blowing off responsibilities.”

“I know,” Clint repeats, cheeks burning. “Oh, hey, was Peter Parker here today?”

Claire shakes her head, looking thoughtful. “No, but I did see him in the hallway not long after the meeting. I thought he was here for the peer tutoring program.”

Clint closes his eyes, and lets out a quiet “damn,” shoulders dropping.

“I take it he wasn’t here for tutoring?” Claire asks.

“No, he wanted to come to the club meeting, but was really nervous about it,” Clint says. He’d hoped, he’d really hoped that Peter would’ve been brave enough to show up without him there, so finding out that he’d been so close…the sickness in his gut twists tighter.

“He might still be here,” Claire says. “I really did see him just after the meeting, and he wasn’t heading towards the exit. You can go look for him if you want, just come back here and clean up the rest of this, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” Clint says, getting to his feet. “I really appreciate this, Claire. Everything about today. You also don’t deserve to be let down by your coworker.”

He sees the first hint of warmth in her eyes as she nods in agreement. “That’s right, I don’t. I’ll see you in the office when you’re done, okay? Let me know if you find Peter.”

“I will,” he says, and leaves.

By some stroke of fate, luck is with him, and it’s only a few moments later that he steps into the rec room and spots a familiar head of fluffy brown hair peeking up over the back of one of the bean bag chairs. He steels himself and walks over.

“Hey, kid,” Clint says tentatively, easing himself down onto one of the other bean bags.

“Hey, Mr. Barton,” Peter says quietly, not looking up from his phone. Clint can just make out the sound of digital cards flipping over, and recognizes it as spider solitaire, one of Peter’s favorites.

Clint stares at him for a few seconds, watching his fingers flick across the screen. The silence around them feels oppressive.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there today,” he starts, and Peter finally looks up at him.

“Yeah, I heard you forgot about the meeting.” Peter’s tone is accusatory, and Clint can read between the lines, replacing _the meeting_ with _me_.

“I didn’t—” he begins to say, but Peter cuts him off, a faint red rising to his cheeks.

“No, you did. I heard you, you told Ms. Temple that you forgot about it, that you had your other job, that you just, you just forgot,” he says, the words pouring out of him hotly, if stilted.

“Peter,” Clint says, stops. Peter’s right, and he can’t lie to him any more than he already has. “I’m so sorry. It’s no excuse, but I just made a mistake. I got caught up in things, and it’s completely my fault.”

“What’s more important about your other job?” Peter asks, and again, Clint hears his real question; _what’s more important than me?_

“It’s not about it being more important,” Clint says. “I promise you, it was just a mistake. A scheduling mistake. That job isn’t any more important than this one, than me being here for you.”

“Then why _weren’t_ you?” Peter’s next question lashes out, and he clenches his mouth shut, jaw tense, big brown eyes hurt. He scrubs his hand across his face, then says in a small voice, “You promised, Mr. Barton.”

“I know I did,” Clint says. “I really wish I had been. You should’ve been able to go to that meeting today, and I know that you were relying on me. I’m so sorry that I let you down, made you feel like you weren’t supported for something that you were already nervous about.”

“It really sucked.” Peter looks away, eyes fixated on one of the basketball hoops. “I kept trying to tell myself to go in, but just couldn’t make myself.”

“Even though Miles was there?” Clint asks hesitantly. 

“Yeah, he’s a friend and everything, but I just…I don’t want people to know, or think things, cause I don’t really know, not yet,” Peter says, then looks back at Clint. “And I kept thinking you were going to show up and make jokes like you always do, and then no-one would be thinking about me. But then you didn’t, and I couldn’t go in there.”

Clint feels the bottom of his stomach, already so twisted, drop out at Peter’s words. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and god that’s getting old, but it’s not getting any less true. “I won’t let it happen again, I’ll be there next time, I promise I will, really.”

Peter’s eyes shutter, and Clint knows he’s made a mistake. “I don’t want your promises, Mr. Barton.”

“Yeah, okay, I deserve that,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Peter says.

They look at each other for a few seconds, and Clint tries to think of what to say that wouldn’t make Peter more angry, or would be the truth. He can’t tell him about SHIELD, he can’t tell him that he didn’t forget, and to be truthful, he probably can’t even promise Peter that he’ll make the next club meeting.

“Just because I missed today doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, or that I don’t think your problems are important,” he tries.

“Sure,” Peter responds, tone heavy with all of the self-doubt of any 16 year old, all of the resignation of any teen who’s ever been given a platitude by an adult they don’t trust. He picks up his phone, black screen face up on his knee. “Oh, May is here. I need to go.”

Clint knows that Peter’s Aunt May, an emergency room nurse in Queens, has never once picked Peter up from the youth center, and usually works night shifts. He also knows that Peter has every right to blow him off and leave this conversation.

“I pro—I’m sorry, Peter,” Clint says one more time as Peter stands up.

“I know you are.” Peter’s lips twisting ruefully. He opens his mouth, then shakes his head. “I’ll see you next week, Mr. Barton.”

“See you,” Clint says, and watches the teen walk through the rec room door.He leans back in the bean bag, arms and legs extended in a sprawl. He stares up at the ceiling blankly.

That makes two today. Two groups of people he’s let down through his incompetence, through his inability to manage a fucking schedule. He thinks of that Jack Nicholson movie, _Something’s Gotta Give_. He loves his job at the youth center, and until 2 months ago could never have imagined doing something else. He’s learning to like being a part of the Avenger’s Initiative, too, though. He doesn’t always fit in and he makes a lot of mistakes, sure, but he’d do that anywhere, right?

Working at the youth center has helped give him a sense of purpose. He knows he’s doing good things for the kids there. It’s been easy to put his own thoughts and feelings aside when he’s had the kids to focus on over the past few years. Natasha has been giving him shit for it for a few months now ‘ _you matter just as much as they do, Clint, don’t run yourself ragged’_ , but Clint doesn’t mind, not really. Before the whole explosion and powers and Avengers thing, he’d gladly spent all of his time at the youth center, despite having to periodically find other work to supplement the income. It’d been worth it, dashing from one shift to another, getting help from his neighbors and Kate to take care of Lucky, having an essentially non-existent social life, all of it, because he’d known what he did mattered. 

And it’s not even that what he’s doing for SHIELD matters more. Peter had been wrong in his accusation that Clint’s other job was more important; Clint will defend until the day he dies that his job working with kids to develop their self-confidence and identities is just as important as anything else, even working for the government taking down evil neo-nazis. There’s always going to be more bad guys that the government thinks needs to be put down, he reasons, but these kids, on the other hand? They’re in the prime time to develop empathy, confidence and the ability to be better people. And the future needs better people. Maybe the results of his work at the center aren’t as instant, or as dramatic, but it’s just as important.

And here he is, screwing up everything.

He sighs, and rolls onto his side, then off of the bean bag. He lets himself wallow on the floor for a full minute before pushing himself up and to his feet. He needs to go and clean up the room Claire left for him, then he should probably head home, where hopefully Natasha thought to bring his phone with her from SHIELD.

He drops one of the fold up chairs on his foot when he’s rearranging the room a few minutes later, because he’s incapable of doing even that correctly.

* * *

Bucky explodes out from behind the shipping container, sweeping his leg forward to take out the knees of the nearest trafficker. The man falls, hands slipping from his gun as he topples backwards. Bucky lunges forward, fist following to strike at the man’s face as it comes level with Bucky’s hips. The man’s head hits the cement, heavily lidded eyes snapping shut.

Beyond Bucky’s shoulder, there’s a streak of blonde as Steve sprints and jumps, diving over the railing to the bridge that connects the ship to the dock. He lands behind the last woman, bodily shoving one of the men off the bridge into the water below. It’s a narrow gap between the dock and the ship, and Bucky hears a clang which he thinks might be the man’s head striking the metal hull. 

A second later, there’s a flash followed by a _boom_ , and smoke billows out of the hull. Huh, maybe Stark’s tech was good for something after all.

“Damn.” Barton’s voice is reverent over the new comms in Bucky’s ears. “Okay, Tony, that was impressive.”

Bucky dashes across the open ground towards the next of his targets, who turns gaping from the explosion just in time to aim his gun at Bucky. Bucky swerves, easily avoiding the awkward attack, diving into a roll under the trafficker’s extended arm, coming up a few feet behind him without breaking his momentum. _Dear Maria, count me grateful_. He’d learned a lot of weapons handling in the Army, but they hadn’t done much hand to hand after the six weeks in Basic. Everything he’s doing tonight is thanks to Maria Hill’s training.

He turns on his heel and punches the man in the elbow, hears bones snap, and winces. The man falls to his knees, a wet gasp ripping its way from his throat. Before he has time to make any louder noises, Bucky kicks out, making contact with his temple. 

The women are in a panic, gathered together at the edge of the dock, no clear escape route in view. “Hey Wanda, are you working your soothing thing yet?” Bucky asks, squaring off with the one remaining trafficker on the ground. He didn’t have a gun, hence becoming Bucky’s final target.

“I am trying.” Wanda’s voice quakes over the comms. “It is different with so many people, and so many emotions. I do not want it to be too much.”

This is Wanda’s first mission where she’s intentionally trying to use some of her emotional manipulation on their opponents. They’d only discovered she could do it a couple weeks ago, and Wanda is incredibly hesitant to use it at all, let alone in a high stakes environment. Steve had been incredibly persistent in his attempts to persuade her, but in the end it had been Barton who had managed to convince her to try tonight, drawing on her empathy for the girls sucked into a trafficking ring back in Southeast Asia.

“It’s okay if you need to stop,” Steve grunts out from the bridge, bringing the heel of his hand down on a man’s nose. “Remember,” he sends a punch to the man’s sternum, “we told you that you could stop if you needed, better not to overextend yourself.”

“And you can always try to help calm them after this all dies down,” Barton says, then adds, “Oops, bad word choice,” as Steve’s comms pick up an audible crunch when his hand makes contact with a man’s collarbone.

“Jesus, Barton, have some tact,” Bucky says, still circling the remaining man.

“It was an accidental pun, come on, I’m not that tactless!” Barton exclaims, indignant. Bucky’s last target, seeing no escape, lunges for one of the women’s arms. Bucky is faster.

“Focus,” Steve growls. “I’m good up here. SHIELD moving in? Status of upper deck?”

“Estimated arrival T-20 seconds,” Barton says, immediately all business. “Top deck is clear, six targets neutralized.”

“Six?” Bucky can’t hide the impressed disbelief in his voice, right as Steve says, “Neutralized?”

“It’s these web-things Tony made,” Barton replies, “Super cool. They can’t move an inch. Only hit one with a regular arrow in the chest, but he looked like a real bad sonofabitch cause he started aiming at the girls instead of us, so I figured lethal for him was maybe okay.”

Bucky yanks the final trafficker’s arms behind his back, unhooking the length of rope from his utility belt to truss his hands together. A second later, three of SHIELD’s panel vans come to a screeching halt and Bucky turns towards them, pushing the man onto his knees in front of him.

Agent Coulson is the first to step out of the vehicles, immediately speaking into the comms. “At ease, team.” 

Several other agents pour out of the cars, and Bucky steps to the side as a few drift towards the women, empty hands up, speaking in soft tones in different lilting languages. Bucky sees the first victim crack when she hears her native tongue, falling forward to the ground in tears. He looks away.

Steve joins him, and a moment later, Wanda does as well, head hanging. “I am sorry I could not do it.”

“It’s okay, Wanda, really,” Steve says, placing a large, consoling hand on her shoulder. “This is still new. We’re not going to get mad at you for this.”

“Damn right,” Barton chimes in, the last of their team for the evening, still perched in his roost a few bays away. “Oh hey, Nat, what are you doing here?”

Bucky feels himself flinch as Natasha speaks up from beside him. “I wanted to see it all come together. I rode with Coulson.”

Natasha is supposed to be off tonight, having done her job that morning when she, Steve and Barton had gone in to apprehend the New York leader of the trafficking ring in his apartment. She had stayed at SHIELD, working with another team to extract data and information from both an acquired hard drive and the leader himself. Stark had then used that information to send falsified communications back to the ship this evening, so that the traffickers had arrived without any warning of what lay in wait.

“And?” Steve asks, watching the SHIELD agents herd the women away from the ship, towards the waiting ambulances. “Thoughts on how it came together?”

The barest hint of a smile flashes on Natasha’s face. “I think I’m satisfied.”

Bucky glances around the dock, and his eyes catch on the man whose elbow he’d shattered. He’s moaning, legs twitching as his head moves feebly from side to side.

 _“You don’t get to show up here to criticize me, you fucking hypocrite,”_ Rumlow’s voice whips out in the back of his mind.

“And you, Buck?” Steve asks.

“Sure, Steve,” Bucky says, staring out at the dark waves crashing up against the side of the ship. “I’m satisfied.”

* * *

The lights are off in the common area when Bucky walks through the doorway, which is why he’s _almost_ startled when he notices Barton near one of the windows, hunched over a side table covered with arrows. He’s not though. Startled, that is. Which is why he definitely doesn’t hiss out “Shit!”, and definitely doesn’t have a knife in hand before he realizes who it is.

Barton still hasn’t realized he’s there, so Bucky frowns and flips on the light switch.

Barton is definitely startled.

His head bucks backwards and he flings one of the headless arrow shafts from the table in front of him in Bucky’s general direction. “Aw, shit,” he exclaims, eyes widening when he sees it’s Bucky he’s just aimed his projectile at.

Bucky turns his body to the side and watches as the improvised weapon whiffs past him. It probably wouldn’t have done much damage, but Barton likely would’ve felt even worse if the arrow actually hit him.

He brings his eyes up from the stick on the ground to meet Barton’s face with a grin. “Damn, Barton, didn’t realize you hated me that much.”

Barton shakes his head and puts his hand across his face, slumping back down in the armchair. “Man, I am so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. That was so dumb of me, I really probably shouldn’t turn my aids off when I’m here.”

Bucky enters the room cautiously after picking up the arrow, sitting down on one of the oversized couches. “No worries, it’s fine. Maybe it’s a good thing—you just gave me some extra training. Natasha would probably approve.”

Barton lets out a weak chuckle, uncovers his face. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe we can get Coulson to put that on our agenda, some in the moment surprise attack training. I bet Tony would love to set up some robots or something to try and get us whenever we’re here.”

“Yeah, I could see that,” Bucky agrees.

They look at each other for a moment.

“So, why—” Barton starts.

“I didn’t real—” Bucky says.

Barton looks away, the embarrassed flush still high on his freckled cheeks. He opens his hand, palm up, in Bucky’s direction.

“Sorry, I was going to say, I didn’t realize that your aids were so…necessary? I realize now that maybe that’s kind of insensitive,” Bucky says, mentally kicking himself. They’ve talked before, of course, but most of their working relationship has consisted of compliments in the gym,commiseration over boredom in training, or moderated interactions in therapy. So here’s Bucky, in a real conversation in the wild, and this is how his brain starts it?

“Oh, no, it’s cool,” Barton says, giving Bucky a smile. “I’ve been hard of hearing since I was a kid, I promise you that that’s far from the worst thing anyone’s ever asked me about it. I’m not totally deaf, and I actually probably should’ve been able to hear you come in, but I was a little distracted. Kind of in my head.” He flicks both hands, flat, to one side in front of his body.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed you and Natasha use sign language together,” Bucky says, then winces. The ‘Explosion Gang’, as Barton had called it yesterday in his boycott of calling them Avengers, started non-verbal communication training _because_ of Barton and Natasha’s effective use of sign.

Barton doesn’t comment on how non-necessary Bucky’s words are. “Yeah—she learned from me, or for me I guess, a few years ago. I used to tease her that she only did it to put on her resume, though. Speaks five languages, including ASL. Most inclusive lawyer in Brooklyn, even if most of her clientele don’t really care about that.”

Bucky looks at Barton’s smile as he mentions Natasha, sees how it’s grown genuine. “You guys are really close, then?”

“As if it isn’t obvious,” Barton scoffs. “We’re as close as you and Steve are, I’d bet.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Alright, okay, no need to get into an argument about who has the better best friendship,” Barton chuckles, ease starting to seep into his posture as he shifts forward to set his forearms against his thighs. “So why are you here this afternoon? You don’t exactly strike me as the type to hang out here on your off hours.” 

“I’m, uh, waiting for Steve, actually,” Bucky says. At Barton’s raised eyebrows and delighted grin, he raises his and grins in return.

“Damn, okay then, one up me like that,” Barton says.

“I take it you’re not here waiting for Natasha?” Bucky asks.

“Nah,” Barton says, grin fading. “I’m meeting up with Maria in a bit to talk about some extra long distance training. Figured it didn’t make sense to go all the way back to Bed-Stuy after the morning session if I just had to be back here at three.”

Bucky wonders if it’s about how Barton had sprinted out of the conference room a few days ago in a panic. He doesn’t press it, though, because that wouldn’t be appreciated, right? He searches for a different topic, and settles on one at hand: the in progress arrow shaft Clint had thrown at him, which he’s still got in his hand. “What’s with the arrows, Barton?” It comes out like an accusation.

Smooth.

Barton looks up in surprise. “Don’t you know? I coulda sworn I’ve mentioned it a few times in group. Me and my brother learned in the circus when I was growing up.”

Bucky can feel the incredulity on his face. “But you don’t mean literally the circus, do you?”

Barton chuckles, “No, I do. Literally. I know it’s hard to believe, but really. We ran out on one of our foster homes when Barney—that’s my brother—heard that they were going to split us up. Hitched around for a few days and happened to come across Carson’s not long after. Stayed on for a couple years doing a bunch of odd jobs with the crew, ’til I was old enough that one of the guys with this ancient weapons act let me train with him. I even starred in the act a few times, if you can believe it. I was real good, though not as good as I am now, what with the whole supernatural explosion aim thing I’ve got going on.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, deciding to deftly step away from Clint’s casual implication of being in a bad foster care situation. They’re not anywhere near ready for a conversation like that. “I seriously thought it was like a metaphor or something. Or that you just didn’t want to be honest with us.”

Barton shakes his head. “You think Nat would let me get away with lying?”

“Okay, fair,” Bucky says, then tilts his head. “So, if you had an act, did you have a stage name? That’s a circus performer thing, right?”

Barton’s blush, only recently cleared from his face, starts to creep back up the side of his neck. “Yeah, I had a stage name. And a costume, too”

Bucky tilts his head to the other side.

Barton squints his eyes at Bucky, and must see something he likes. He stands and points at Bucky. “Okay, you asked for it.”

He grabs his bow, conveniently located behind the armchair he was in, then inverts himself into a quick, one-handed cartwheel, followed by a somersault, which he springs out of into a twisting handspring that ends with him landing in a crouch on the coffee table. He’s got his hand at his ear like he’s got the bowstring drawn back, but no arrow, and he mimics drawing and releasing three times in different directions before spinning to face Bucky, hands on hips.

“The Amazing Hawkeye, the World’s Greatest Marksman!” He stands posed for a blink, then bends over and tips off the edge of the table, absolutely cracking up.

Bucky doesn’t quite know how to respond, feels his face flicker through a series of reactions before settling on what he hopes displays appreciation, because, okay, yeah, that was impressive. Ridiculous, but impressive. A little hot, too, if he’s not lying to himself. “Alright, so you weren’t kidding.”

Barton sits up and leans back on his hands, legs flat in front of him. “No, I really wasn’t. Jeez, I haven’t shown anyone that in years.”

Bucky feels himself warm. “I think you’ve got yourself a call sign, Barton. You should tell Steve when he gets here.”

Barton pauses, actually looking like he’s considering it. “Hmm, maybe. Hey, speaking of call signs,why do you always call people by their last name? Or at least me and Bruce?”

“I’m not sure,” Bucky responds, “Maybe it’s an Army thing.”

“Hmm,” Barton hums, eyes narrowing. “You know, I had this one teacher who always called the kids he hated by their last name. Actually, I think that’s what a lot of people who don’t like other people do, as though by not calling them their actual names, they’re putting distance between themselves and the people they don’t like.”

“Okay, _Sam_ ,” Bucky says, eyes narrowing. “I’ll just start calling you Hawkeye on the regular, then.”

“Be careful,” Barton warns, his long lash framed eyes twinkling dangerously at him. “If you do that before it’s actually my call sign, it’ll be closer to a nickname instead.”

“Wouldn’t be the end of the world, I guess,” Bucky says. “You know, you actually call me by a nickname. Unless you thought my parents actually named me Bucky Barnes?”

“Hey, no judgment from me.” Barton’s all teasing grins now. “Parents have been known to do some real fucked up shit to their kids. I’d say naming a kid Bucky would qualify.”

Bucky feels the chuckle bubble out of his throat, and shakes his head. “Bucky is a nickname for Buchanan, my middle name.”

“Yeah, not doing anything to convince me that your parents weren’t intentionally trying to screw you over,” Barton says, eyes sparkling. His hand comes up to fiddle with one of his hearing aids absentmindedly. 

“Fair,” Bucky says. He watches Barton’s hand go back to the floor, and decides that if anyone would be okay talking about disabilities, this easy-going guy might be. “Did you ever not want to have hearing aids? If you don’t mind my asking?”

Barton looks at him for a moment, then sits forward, crossing his legs underneath him. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve always wanted to hear, though I guess when I was younger, I was self conscious about the aids themselves. Why do you ask?”

Bucky sighs. It’s a different situation, but, “Stark has been trying to convince me to get this fancy prosthetic he designed. I don’t know if I want it.”

“Ah,” Barton says, scooting closer to the coffee table between them. He rests his elbow on it, then his chin on his fist, looking at Bucky intently. It’s kind of uncomfortable, and Bucky shifts a little. “Every disability is different, and every person with a disability is different. What makes you want it? Why would you choose to get it?”

Bucky studies Barton’s face for a moment, and sees only genuine interest. He doesn’t think Barton will think any less of him, no matter what he says. “I mean, not having two arms isn’t fun for me. Things are harder. I fucking hate how people look at me, and I hate not being able to do things like I used to.” 

“That sounds like there’s kind of two things—how it makes you feel, and how other people see you,” Barton says. “And you gotta know that what other people think doesn’t matter, right?”

“Yeah, I just…” Bucky trails off. Barton doesn’t press him, patiently waits him out. “I guess I also hate people looking at me?” He suddenly feels incredibly exposed. “Shit, what the hell, put me in this room and I’m dropping all kinds of lame shit on you.”

“Sam’s a real sneaky bastard, isn’t he, getting us to have group sessions here, get all comfortable with our feelings,” Barton says, then sobers up. “I appreciate you telling me. I know what it’s like. I’ve never really had anything against how I looked,” and why _would_ you, Bucky’s brain decides to insert, which, what? “But I definitely know what it’s like to dislike who I am.”

Bucky looks at him, Barton’s blue eyes sincere, open, head still resting on his hand. There’s a bandaid across the bridge of his nose, and Bucky can see the tag sticking up out of the back of his shirt.

“You’re kind of a mess, Hawkguy, but I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like who you are.”

* * *

Okay, so Clint’s brain maybe short circuits when Bucky compliments him. But what else could be expected, when he’d been sure the guy had hated him for the first month they’d known each other? Or at least thought he was dumb. That’s definitely the vibe Clint’s been picking up. He’d been shocked when Bucky had spoken to him this afternoon, not just because he physically hadn’t heard him arrive. Then, when the man actually _sat down_? Instead of leaving? Wonders are never ceasing today, it would seem.

“I, uh,” Clint stutters, and Jesus, Bucky is blushing. Clint shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it, and lets him off the hook. “Some of the kids I work with call me a dumpster fire, and they’re not wrong. I fuck up just about everything I touch, can’t trust me with anything.”

Bucky’s got a new frown on his face, one that Clint hasn’t seen before. He’s not sure where it would fit on the scale he’s been tracking him by. “You don’t, though. Fuck everything up, I mean,” he clarifies at Clint’s questioning look.

“Sure I do,” Clint says. Bucky just doesn’t know. “Eventually at least. I always let people down. That’s why I’m so surprised Fury even wants me on the team. The Avengers—god, I can’t call us that—the Headcase Crew, whatever, would probably be better off without me in the long run.”

Disbelief has come back to Bucky’s face, only this time, Clint’s not about to prove him wrong by performing an old entrance routine. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“I mean, yeah,” Clint says with a shrug. “Just this week I let down Coulson and screwed up something important at the center. You guys probably don’t need me, anyways. ”

“But you—, that’s not—, you’re so—,” Bucky starts three times, then narrows his eyes determinedly at Clint. “You’ve been so useful to the team already. Like the trafficking ring takedown from earlier this week; you were instrumental in the success there.”

“I guess,” Clint says. “But another sniper, like an actual trained sniper, probably could’ve done the same thing.”

“You’re serious, you’re actually serious,” Bucky says disbelievingly. “You don’t believe you belong on this team. You can’t see how much you bring to the table.”

“Besides this aim that the explosion gave me? There’s not really anything,” Clint responds. Bucky seems excessively upset by this.

“Barton. Clint. If you don’t think you belong here, then what the fuck am I doing?” Bucky asks, voice tight and low.

“What do you mean?” Clint asks, confused.

Bucky’s frown deepens, and he inhales before speaking. “I’m a one-armed corrupt former soldier who doesn’t trust anyone, who hates himself and most people. I feel like a hypocrite on my best days, a complete fake and absolute asshole most others. It feels like the only thing I’m good for most of the time is hurting people, whether it was for the Army or for SHIELD, or just because I’m an asshole that hurts people. I’m a weapon, and I’m about to get an arm that might make me even more of one. If you don’t think you belong here, then seriously. What. The fuck. Am I doing here?”

Clint can tell his eyes are big, and he snaps his mouth closed. Bucky’s fist is clenched and his jaw is tight. His eyes show a heavy dose of fear and disgust, veiled thinly by frustration. “But…you’re not any of that?”

Bucky stares at him, shocked out of his anger. “What?”

“You’re not an asshole,” Clint says. “I mean yeah you take a little bit to warm up to people, I definitely get that, but you care. I’ve seen you care. With Wanda, with Steve, with all of us, really. You want to be here at SHIELD.” He looks closer at Bucky, then hazards, “You want to do good, I think. And I know that you’ve done things before you’re not proud of, but hasn’t everyone? You’re here now, and you’re intentionally trying to be better.”

Bucky leans back into the couch cushion behind him, the wind knocked out of his sails.

“As for your arm, and sorry if I’m overstepping,” Clint continues, “but it would be yours to use how you want to, right? You’re a person, Bucky, and the prosthetic would just be a single part of you. Sure, maybe when we go on missions you might have to use it in a, uh, weaponized way, but the rest of the time? That’s the arm that might help you feel better about all of those things you told me about.”

Bucky looks at him for a long moment, then lets out a weak chuckle, glancing away. “Shit, are you sure Sam isn’t here right now channeling through you?”

“Nope.” Clint grins and gestures down at his body. “Just me. Sorry about it.”

Bucky looks back at him and seems to gather himself, broad shoulders straightening. There’s a confidence, an ease that seems to settle over him that looks damn good. “Yeah, it’s obviously just you, because if Sam were here, such idiotic things like you not belonging on this team would never have come out of your mouth.”

“Hey, now,” Clint says, grin easing into a smile. “Sam told Natasha she’s not supposed to call me an idiot anymore.”

“Oh did he?” Bucky challenges, eyebrow arched. It’s a remarkably different look from the way his brows usually tilt in the opposite direction. Clint likes it. He likes it a lot.

“Yeah, so you’d better stop,” Clint says. “I bet he somehow knows everything we say in here.”

At that exact moment, JARVIS’s cool voice speaks from above them, and _neither_ of them jump, of course not. “Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers is on his way down from the briefing room, and has requested that I inform you to meet him in the lobby.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Bucky says, standing. Clint watches him from his seat on the ground, smiles.

“Hey, I’m glad you happened to be here today.”

“Same, Barton, or, um, Hawkeye,” Bucky says. “It was good to talk to you. Even if I feel like this room is magic because I swear I never woulda done it otherwise.”

Clint chuckles. “Sure, it’s the room. We should do it again sometime, maybe not here. How about if you end up getting the prosthetic, we meet up when you’re set for training and you can show me what you know down on the range? I heard you were supposed to be a half decent shot or something.”

Bucky nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.” He heads towards the elevator, then stops when Clint calls out.

“Oh, and Bucky? Get the prosthetic, or don’t—it’s your choice. But I hope you remember that if you do, you’ll also get to choose every single day how you use it.”

Clint can make out the smile that’s still on Bucky’s face, the thoughtful expression in his eyes as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try to remember that.”

Clint gives an inane little wave before Bucky turns again, because seriously, who waves goodbye to people, and then sighs, laying back on the floor.

He hopes that Bucky decides to get the arm, and hopes that he feels like it’s the right decision. And if he doesn’t, Clint hopes that Bucky will be okay with Clint hanging out and helping him become okay with it. The guy deserves to feel functional, to feel like he belongs, to not outright hate himself. Clint rolls his head to the side, looking at the couch where Bucky had been sitting for the better part of 30 minutes, actually talking to him. The guy deserves more than simply not hating himself, Clint doesn’t mind admitting. What he wonders about though, is why he’s suddenly so invested in being the one to help Bucky see that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured it was probably time for the boyos to actually talk to each other, those insecure lil idiots. 
> 
> thanks for sticking it out this far to see how they're all adjusting! and happy Friday! I hope your day is even half as beautiful as this palindrome—1.22.21


	5. Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey so it would appear that everyone has different **feelings** about Bucky becoming part cyborg._

Five metal fingers stretch open in front of him. Dr. Cho’s thumbs, delicate and pale, depress in the center of his palm, and the metal fingers involuntarily flinch closer, tightening together.

And the thing is—the thing is—

The thing is, they’re Bucky’s fingers. He can feel every movement, every point of pressure from Dr. Cho. There are neurons firing somewhere that register each sensation, points of contact that race up the electrical pathways through the cybernetic arm that tell his brain that these are his.

He’d never been one to suffer much from phantom limb syndrome after he lost his arm like many vets did, but damn if it isn’t disconcerting to suddenly feel all of the normal sensations one would with an arm, then to look down and see this.

Shiny metallic plates, interlocking and smooth, flow upwards from fingertips to the joint in his shoulder, where Dr. Cho’s nano molecular technology has been helping his enhanced healing factor regenerate tissue so that it’s a smooth transition between flesh and metal. He flexes his fingers again, spinning his wrist, and watches as the metallic plates whir, recalibrating to the movement. It’s a little delayed right now, the mechanisms still adjusting to find a baseline of data, but Stark expects it to normalize within the next few days.

Dr. Cho releases his hand, muttering under her breath to JARVIS, who has been recording everything for the past 20 minutes of testing. As she does, Bucky draws his hand back into his lap, jolting at the feedback that he gets when it rests against his thigh. It’d be one thing to feel the prosthetic against his leg, but to also receive signals from the arm itself that tells him it’s in contact with something…he hadn’t expected that.

“It looks good, Bucky,” Dr. Cho says, smiling up at him. She gathers the different instruments she and Stark have been using to test Bucky’s pressure reading, temperature, reflexes, and dexterity into order on the tray table, ready for the next round of testing in a few hours. “How are you feeling after this session?”

“Fine, I guess. No change since the last time,” Bucky responds.After taking two days of pure rest for recovery, giving his shoulder time to accept the joint where the rest of the prosthetic connects, he’s had another two days of gradual testing, Dr. Cho arriving with or without Stark every six hours.

“Our boy is looking great, he’ll be tip top shape in no time,” Stark says, coming over to clap Cho on the shoulder, arbitrarily rearranging some of the tools on her tray. “Your fancy tissue tech is working beyond your expectations, and my tech, though we can’t exactly say is exceeding expectations, since we knew it would perform perfectly, is clearly excelling, right Buckaroo?”

“He telling the truth, Buck?” Steve asks from the chair in the corner. This is the first session Bucky has allowed him to be at, and he’s watched everything avidly, asking polite questions of the two scientists along the way.

“Sure,” Bucky says, resisting the urge to curl the prosthetic smaller in his lap. He can’t angle his body away from people like he used to, either, the metallic arm too bulky to shield with the profile of his body.

“Of course I am,” Stark sniffs, flicking Bucky’s arm for no discernible reason. “He’ll be in fighting shape in no time.”

Bucky grimaces, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice, turning to Stark with his eyebrows up, expression questioning. “You think so? How long do you think it will be?”

“Definitely less than a week and he should be good to spar, some hand to hand drills, even earlier if we’re talking him and a punch bag.” Stark flits around the edge of the bed to pull up a holographic screen to analyze data points. “At the rate he’s going, I bet we could get him down to the range to practice with weapons deflection in seven or eight days, maybe sooner depending on how quickly the neurons align with his reflexes.”

“That’s great,” Steve says, puppy dog excitement on his face. He turns to Bucky, eyes alight, as though he can’t see how physically uncomfortable Bucky’s becoming with this conversation. “Whaddaya think, Buck? Do Stark’s estimates sound accurate?”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t know. They’re the doctors, not me.”

Steve glances away, blue eyes flicking upwards in contemplation. “I could get a couple of the heavy bags and a new speed bag set up for you down in the gym as soon as tomorrow, just so it’s ready to go whenever you are ready; Coulson will be happy to hear how quickly you’re progressing.”

“I can do better than that,” Stark says, tapping a screwdriver against his chin. “I’ll get right on it, I can probably beg off from Pepper for a few hours if I need to develop a Barnes-proof punch bag. Ooh, movement and flexibility. And then maybe silicone for durability?”

He walks away from the pair while pulling up what looks like football tackle sled diagrams and robotic schematics in the air around him. On the way out the door to his neighboring lab he passes Dr. Cho, who is sliding the tray table up against the wall.

Steve chuckles, turning back to Bucky with mirth in his eyes. “Who would have thought we’d have a billionaire making playthings for us in his spare time, huh?”

“Right,” Bucky says, and Steve falters at his tone.

“What is it?”

Bucky looks away, struggling to find the words that can describe just how he’s feeling. Steve’s getting too involved, his concern too much, too invasive, too _Steve_. The metallic hand glints at his side and he reflexively closes his thumb and index finger together, snagging skin through the denim of his jeans. The pinch is sharp, pointed, grounding. “Could you just back the fuck off?”

Not exactly what he intended, but it conveys the point well enough. Steve leans back, expression shuttering. “I’m—sorry, what do you mean?”

Bucky meets his eyes, and the hurt in them makes him irrationally angry. It’s not Steve with the prosthetic arm, it’s not Steve with the guilt, with the sheer self-hatred that Bucky feels on a daily basis. What right does Steve have to be hurt, or even to feel like he needs to be here, working with Stark to make plans for Bucky to use this—this—thing as a weapon, get Bucky ready to go back into the field, turning him into a perfect, undamaged little soldier again; Steve doesn’t get to be hurt by this, not now.

“I need you to back the fuck off, Steve,” he repeats. “Just let this shit go. Stop talking about this thing like it’s yours, stop trying to figure things out, stop trying to fix things, fix me. Just, stop.”

Steve isn’t one to back down, not even from his friends, and Bucky watches as the hurt in his eyes transforms into a familiar fiery indignation. “I’m not trying to _fix_ you, Bucky, you already have the arm for that.”

Bucky leans back, feeling his eyes go wide at the corners. “I wasn’t fucking broken, Steve.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve says, straightening his back in the chair. “I didn’t think you were broken before, all I’m saying is that now that you have the prosthetic, you can put it to use.”

“I would have been fine without the arm, asshole,” Bucky says. “And you don’t get to fucking tell me how to use this goddamn thing. Not today, not tomorrow down at the gym, not fucking ever.”

Steve shakes his head, exasperation clear. Bucky can’t help but feel offended at the motion, his feelings so casually dismissed. “I’m not going to tell you how to use it, Bucky, I’m just going to make sure things are ready for you when you do decide to use it like it was made for.”

“Maybe I won’t ever use it like that,” Bucky says, an angry heat rising up his neck. “Maybe I don’t _ever_ want to use it like that, so whatever you or fucking Stark do is just a waste of time.”

Bucky hears a quiet snick as the door to the med bay closes, Dr. Cho deciding that she doesn’t need to be in the middle of this argument.

“That’s just stupid,” Steve snaps, standing abruptly enough that his chair legs clatter against the floor. “What do you mean, not going to use it? That’s such a waste—why did you even get the thing if you didn’t want to use it?”

Bucky can’t find the words. This is why he refused to talk to Steve about getting the prosthetic to begin with, why he did all of the research on his own, consulting only with the three scientists for their input. Running into Barton a few weeks ago had been a surprise, if an unintentionally welcome one. Barton had understood Bucky’s need for autonomy throughout the process. He recognized Bucky’s discomfort with the idea of fixing himself and hadn’t tried to insert his own opinion at any point. Steve, though, Steve’s never understood how Bucky feels about his disability.

Bucky can remember early on, when the pair of them had only been back stateside together for a few weeks, he had once mentioned that he felt like he deserved the disfigurement. The resulting verbal feud between him and Steve had made their new apartment uncomfortable for days.

“Tony, Helen, and Bruce have put in a lot of time to do this for you,” Steve says, angling for a different tactic. “You’d be wasting so much of—“

Bucky cuts him off with a scoff. “Okay, you’re going to guilt trip me for how I choose to use my own arm, Steve? What the fuck?”

“It’s a good thing, Bucky!” Steve’s voice raises, and his hands come up to cross in front of his chest. Bucky can see the knuckles on Steve’s left hand whiten as they clench in a fist across his bicep. “Why aren’t you excited about this? Why is it such a big deal for me to be excited about this, to want to help you out?”

“I don’t need to be excited about it, damnit, Steve, I don’t even need to be happy about it,” Bucky says, a knot in his chest straining under his ribs.

“But you should be,” Steve shoots back.

“Fuck off with your ‘should’,” Bucky shouts. “You’re going to tell me how I should fucking _feel_ , now, too?”

Steve shakes his head disbelievingly, raising his hands up. “This is ridiculous. It’s obviously a bad time right now. I don’t want to regret whatever we say to each other.”

Bucky knows that some part of what Steve says is accurate because even in his anger he can recognize when his emotions are running the show, but Steve’s implication that everything will smooth over with time is at all once patronizing and infuriating. “I promise I have said nothing but the truth. I need you. To back off.”

“Fine,” Steve says, taking a step away from the bed. “I can do that. I’ll come back whenever you’ve had time to think more about this.”

Sometimes, Steve has no idea how condescending he sounds. “As if I’ve done anything _but_ think about this,” Bucky mutters, watching as Steve walks straight-backed to the door. He knows Steve can hear him, so he adds, “I’m not the one that needs fucking time.”

When the door clicks shut behind him, Bucky sits forward, leaning his head into his hands, elbows on his knees. The metal and the flesh feel different against his skin, his left palm smoother and more firm, though both are warmed to body temperature and tremble in sync together with his anger. His hair falls forward through his fingertips and he worries, for a moment, about it snagging on the interlocking plates of his prosthetic.

He’ll go to the gym, eventually. He’ll work with Stark and the team to test his reflexes, prepare to use his new arm in a variety of ways. He’ll train, he’ll test, he’ll do whatever it takes to feel comfortable with this new arm that already somehow feels like his own. He has to, is the thing. He’s not going to keep something on his body that he doesn’t control completely; he already has enough lack of control in his life. He’s going to train and test so that he knows this arm just as well as the other, so that it won’t hold any surprises for him, so that he can trust it to do what he needs from it. So that he can decide exactly how he uses it.

But Jesus fuck, if Steve could just back off.

* * *

Clint can hear a repetitive clanging from down the hallway as he approaches the gym. It’s faint at first, the walls throughout the Avengers’ wing of Stark Tower clearly designed to be soundproof, but he can see the door open ahead, light and sound alike spilling out into the hallway. As he steps closer, he can make out periodic banging as two heavy metallic objects collide, punctuated by what he eventually identifies as loud, grunting exhalations of effort.

Stepping inside, he finds the source of the noise quickly: Steve is in the middle of the range section of the room, hefting a series of large, circular metallic plates at various targets set up along the walls.

Even from this distance, Clint can make out shadowed rings of sweat lining Steve’s shirt and shorts, his blonde hair shades darker than normal.

One of the disks rebounds off of the left wall, hurtling through the air to hit the rear wall before flying back towards the center of the room. Steve lunges to his right, two giant steps and a leap lining him up in the pathway of the disk. He extends one long arm overhead to catch it, and Clint winces as the disk lands with a solid thunk, Steve’s forward movement coming to a halt as the velocity of the disk intercepts his own momentum. He lands lightly on his feet, rotating his shoulder up and behind him.

Clint moves forward into the room and Steve glances back sharply, his enhanced hearing picking up on Clint’s light footsteps. Seriously, it isn’t fair to be surrounded by teammates with super senses; Clint’s really been trying to work on his stealth and it just doesn’t show with these guys.

“Clint,” he acknowledges, brief and short, striding away towards the end of the room where a few other metal disks lie in different locations.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint responds, walking into the weapons locker. He collects two quivers, hand hovering over some of the new trick arrows Tony fixed up for him a week ago just before Bucky’s surgery, citing the need for a distraction. Steve’s out there using a glorified frisbee, so if this isn’t the time for a boomerang arrow, when is?

He adds a couple to one of the quivers, grabs the case for his takedown recurve, and heads back out. Steve is back at his starting point, all the metal disks gathered on the ground around him. Clint stretches on his way over, swinging his arms over his head and to the sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers to limber them up.

Steve gives him a brief flicker of recognition when Clint falls into line with him a few yards over before lifting another disk and exhaling deeply. There’s tension in his form, a tightness to his grip on the edge of the disk, a force behind his breath that speaks of frustration.

Clint kneels on the ground to take the pieces of his bow out, fitting the upper limb into the riser and screwing them together smoothly. He’s had this takedown for years, case small and convenient for storage in his and Nat’s tiny apartment, the recurve model less conspicuous and less likely to get confiscated should the NYPD ever have reason to realize he doesn’t actually have a permit to shoot it in city limits. It also gets less looks of interest from the hunting crowd than a crossbow or compound might at the range he used to occasionally shoot around at before this whole SHIELD thing. Stark’s designed a whole slew of new bows for him since Coulson first gave Clint the green light to use the weapon, crowing all the way about bringing Clint into the modern era, but sometimes Clint just wants what’s familiar.

He strings the bow, waxed string stretching smoothly over the ends, snapping into place in the notches with ease. He slips an arm guard over his left forearm, worn purple leather battered, criss-crossed with lighter purple lines.

To his left, Steve hurls another disk toward the back wall, silver metal glinting as it spins. Clint stands up from the ground, knocking an arrow to the string. A second after Steve’s next release, he lets an arrow fly, angling it so the head skims along the surface of the disk as it banks through the air, tipping off the smooth metal to ram into the center of one of the targets.

Beside him, Steve lets out a huff, lifting another disk up. Clint makes eye contact with him, and winks. “Don’t worry, Rogers, I won’t upstage you too bad.”

Steve chuckles, an unwilling smile fighting its way to his face. “You can’t upstage me if I refuse to compete, Clint.” He lifts the disk a little higher, spinning the heavy object between his palms. It’s got a wide circumference, his hands a solid three feet apart. “I’m learning how to use this, not signing up to try to beat you at your own game.”

“At least you know it’s my game,” Clint says, eyes on the targets ahead of him as he moves into a warmup pattern on the most central target. “I wouldn’t have pegged that for a projectile if I saw it on the ground, but man, seeing you throw it? Now you know I gotta try my hand at it.”

Another disk hurtles through the air, crashing into the left wall, the angle accurate enough to fly into the back wall, but off enough that Steve doesn’t bother trying to run to retrieve it from the air.

“Maybe save your showboating until I’m at least sort of decent at it before you show me up?” Steve turns to watch Clint’s target as it sprouts feathered shafts in a neat, concentric spiral.

“Fair enough,” Clint says. He quickly finishes a quiver, then nods to Steve and they head down range to collect their weapons.

“What are they for, anyway?” Clint asks as he braces against the wall to pull out a particularly deep arrow, frowning slightly. Even in a warmup, he’s gotta get better at monitoring the force of each of his draws.

“They’re shields,” Steve says, and Clint furrows his brow in exasperation.

“Okay, and?”

“I’ve told Coulson I don’t want to use a gun on our missions, which he’s agreed to, so I’m trying to find an alternative.”

“So you settled on the weaker half of a gladiator’s getup?” Clint says, walking back to the head of the range. “How’d you decide on that? Eager to join me on team ‘It’s Not Outdated, It’s Vintage’?”

Steve’s already waiting there, having made a trip all the way back to the weapons locker before Clint had managed to retrieve even half of his arrows. Three more shields rest at his feet.

“Shields are for protection,” he says, ignoring Clint’s quip. It’s a statement that sounds just like him, though. In a recent therapy session that centered around the idea of purpose, both Steve and Bucky had talked about joining the military, then SHIELD in order to protect others. “Also, I did shot-put and discus in high school. And also, gun control laws are important.”

Clint laughs. “Yeah, I can see how all of that comes together to make you think your best option is a shiny piece of history.”

They work together silently through their small stockpile for another few moments, Clint occasionally moving out of the way of Steve’s sprints to catch the shields, a practice in spatial awareness that he really needs to work on. Only one arrow _actually_ grazes Steve though, a shallow pink line opening along a bicep, concern quickly waved off and forgotten.

It’s on their third round, Steve’s face drawn back to the same closed-off expression that he’d had when Clint arrived, when Clint decides to address the mood. He glances again at Steve’s downturned lips and storming eyes and takes his shot.

“How’s Bucky doing?”

Steve flinches, falters; his fingertips release a second too early, and the disk in his hand careens off to the side, clanging against the wall, then clattering to the ground.

Clint winces, one eye scrunching closed. He lowers his bow. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Steve dismisses, drawing in a deep breath. He picks up another disk, and Clint thinks for a moment he’s going to ignore him. “Bucky’s…fine.”

“That sounds incredibly optimistic,” Clint says lightly. “Exactly as detailed and specific as a concerned teammate hopes to hear about someone after surgery.”

Steve grimaces. He lowers the disk, letting it dangle from his fingertips just off the ground. He looks up at the ceiling, then cuts his eyes at Clint, giving him a wry smile, twisted on his lips.

Clint raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I know consent matters and everything, so don’t feel like you gotta tell me anything he wouldn’t want me to know, but I do care about how he’s doing.”

Steve shakes his head, waving off Clint’s concern. “Bucky’s doing great, all things considered. He’s recovering even better than the doctors predicted, should be up and operational soon.”

“That’s good, right?” Clint asks, because Steve’s tone suggests anything but.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve responds. He looks down at the disk in his hand, then in a blur of motion, throws it full speed at the nearest target. The disk collides with the wall a full four feet away from it, spinning wildly off course in a wobbling spin.

_Well then._

“If he’s doing fine, what’s got your knickers in a twist?” Clint asks.

Steve blinks at the phrase, momentarily stymied, then laughs, short and soft.

“I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?” Clint asks, raising his bow and turning to face the target so that Steve doesn’t feel the need to make eye contact as he speaks.

“He can’t see that this is a good thing. He’s staring this gift horse in the mouth.” Steve’s voice is tight, and Clint is careful to keep his expression neutral. “You know, used to, Buck was all about robotics and engineering and all things science. He would’ve been all over this, and now he acts like it doesn’t matter at all, like he couldn’t care less. He refuses to talk to me or Coulson about using it in the field; he won’t even talk to me about coming down here to train once he gets the all-clear from the doctors.”

Clint sends seven arrows through the air before he responds.

“But he did get it.”

“Well, yeah,” Steve says.

Clint nocks an eighth arrow, then looks at Steve before releasing. “He didn’t have to do that.”

He reaches down for another arrow and finds both quivers empty except for the three boomerang arrows. He walks down to the end of the range, letting Steve sit in his thoughts. It’s hard to stay quiet. Clint knows Steve means well, and only pressures Bucky to do things because he cares—hell, the only reason the two veterans were at therapy was because of Steve—but the man is as overbearing as any person Clint has ever seen. He pulls the arrows from the target, pleased with their uniform depth.

He trudges back to Steve, who’s staring at the ground, frowning perplexedly.

“When I was 21, I was working all minimum wage jobs,” Clint starts, sliding each of the arrows into their respective quivers. “One day I saw this poster for the youth center, thought about seeing if I could join on as support staff. I thought I could do some good there, be the kind of adult I always needed when I was growing up.”

He sees Steve looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“Turns out, you had to have at least an associate degree to work there, and I barely had a GED. I figured there was no way I’d be able to get an associate fast enough, that all the work necessary was just too much. I didn’t have time for that, man.”

“But you eventually must have, right?”

“Eventually, yeah. Nat made sure of it.”

A shield hurtles through the air at the same time as Clint’s next arrow, reaching the wall a hairsbreadth earlier.

“How’d she do that? Signed you up herself? Bother you until you went to class?”

“Nah,” Clint says. “You’d think so, though, wouldn’t you? We talked about it, a little, and she called me an idiot for being intimidated by hard work, but in the end all she did was tell me that it was my decision to make, and that I’d regret it every time I walked past the center.”

“That doesn’t seem like a lot,” Steve says hesitantly. “You must not have been too against the idea.”

Clint chuckles. “You misunderstand me. I fucking hated school, Steve. I was the worst at it, some sort of undiagnosed dyslexia shit, reading at a middle school level. I was running ragged trying to make ends meet while Nat applied to law school; the thought of jumping through hoops in the system made me shudder.”

“Hmm.” There’s a catch in Steve’s hum, so Clint nods, and offers more.

“See, Nat has this thing she does where she gives me her opinion, laying the facts bare for me. She knows I’ll buck if she tries too hard to tell me what to do, but she never shies away from letting me know exactly how she feels.”

“I doubt she shies away from anything,” Steve grumbles, and Clint chuckles.

“You’re not wrong. Aim for the right target?”

Steve hurtles a shield at Clint’s request, and he tracks the center of it carefully before releasing. The two projectiles collide, and the shield is thrown off course, clanging directly in the corner of the room, hitting both walls simultaneously.

“Now, I know Nat’s a pretty smart person. I know that she looks out for me, that she always has my best interest at heart. I also know that I’m a stubborn bastard who refuses to do what someone tells me if I don’t want to, even if I can see the logic for myself,” Clint says. He stretches, then removes his armguard, switching it to the other forearm. “Nat knows that about me, too.”

“And here you are, working at that youth center,” Steve says.

“Here I am,” Clint confirms, doing a few quick dry draws with his left arm, letting his shoulder warm to the motion. Steve watches, silent.

“Bucky knows that you care, Steve, and he knows that you have his best interest in mind, always,” Clint says gently. “I wouldn’t have attended a single course if I hadn’t decided for myself that I needed to do it, especially if Nat kept reminding me about how much I needed to, or if she made me feel like it was more her decision than mine.”

“That’s not how I mean for him to feel,” Steve says quickly, hurt. “I know it’s his arm, and of course he gets to decide how and when he wants to use it. I guess…I guess I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t.”

“And that’s fine,” Clint counters. “You’re his best friend, not his subconscious. You can’t know how he feels, and you can’t be the angel on his shoulder urging him towards the things you think are right. You’re stubborn, Steve Rogers, but so is Bucky. I’ve only known the guy for a couple months and I know how deep he can dig his heels in.”

Beside him, Steve sighs.

“I just want what’s best for him.”

Clint lowers his bow and turns to face Steve, coughing to get him to look up. He raises an eyebrow once he has Steve’s attention. “I know that. So does Bucky—nobody’s doubting your intentions. Thing is, Bucky has to be the one to decide what is actually best for him, or else he’ll resent your involvement.”

A chime dings from the back wall by the door and Steve glances away from Clint. “That’s my alarm. I’ve got to get going; I have a meeting with Coulson soon, and clearly,” he gestures down at his body, grey shirt nearly black with sweat, “I need to clean up first.”

“Damn straight you do,” Clint says, flinching away from him in mock disgust. His eyes land on the shields up against the targets. “How about you leave the shields out? I’ll put them away before I leave.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “At least wait until I leave the room before you start making me regret this decision?”

“Whatever you need to feel secure at night,” Clint snarks back. He lets his grin soften into a smile. “You’re a good friend, Steve.”

Steve lifts his shirt up to wipe at his forehead, and Clint skitters his eyes to the side to avoid looking at the man’s abs. Feels weird to ogle the guy when they’re talking about his best friend, whose, if Clint’s honest, he’d much rather be looking at right now. Steve’s voice is muffled, but Clint can just make out the end of his sentence. “….nt feel like it.”

“You are, I promise,” Clint says, stepping over to him to shove at his shoulder. “Trust me, I have the world’s best friend, so I would know what makes a good one.”

Steve steps back on his heels as though Clint’s teasing push was actually forceful enough to affect his enhanced balance, and Clint appreciates the gesture. Steve raises his hands up in front of his chest. “I told you, I’m not competing with you today.”

“Not today, fine,” Clint says, returning to his bow. “But my best friend is the best all day, every day, so it’s a foregone conclusion.”

He watches as Steve heads towards the door, noting how much lighter his footsteps feel compared to the heavy footfalls he’s been trudging around the range with for the past thirty minutes. Steve’s shoulders are still slumped, and the wall next to one of the targets might be permanently dented in a few places, but some kind of progress has been made. He nocks another arrow to his bow, and releases towards a target that JARVIS is descending down from the ceiling for him.

Half a second later, he yelps, ducking to the side as the arrow boomerangs back towards him.

* * *

Bucky’s seated in the conference room with the lights off, waiting for a meeting later that afternoon, nearly two hours early. It’s easier this way, though: he was able to avoid Steve, not wanting to make the trip up from Brooklyn with him. The subway is uncomfortable enough as it is, all those bodies crowded together, sticky warm and unobservant of personal space, so leaving in the early afternoon ensures that there is a smaller chance of someone bumping into Bucky’s prosthetic. Not that they would notice, probably, everyone in their own heads like proper New Yorkers, but still. The thought made Bucky uncomfortable.

He’s on his phone, mindlessly flicking through a news release about a musical artist he used to like, when Barton comes dashing in, a golden retriever panting at his side, the pair of them splashed with mud. Barton slams the door shut behind him, leaning back against it in relief. The dog looks dingy, amber hair turned gray by melted snow slush up his legs and undercoat, and Barton’s sweatpants are stained with brown and gray splotches of their own, his hoodie positively dripping. Neither of them notice Bucky, hidden away in the darkened corner as he is, so he takes the moment to study Barton.

Outside of the apparent mishap he’s had with the remnants of the late winter storm that blew through earlier this week in mid-February, Clint looks just about like normal, which is to say, as much of a mess as ever. He’s got a lavender beanie on, though it’s pulled far back enough on his head that his entire forehead is exposed, blonde scruff sticking out in every which way at the front. His face, eyes closed tight as he catches his breath, is wind chapped and red, a flush spanning across the bridge of his nose, highlighting old summer freckles that Bucky hasn’t noticed before. Barton’s got a fraying backpack dangling from the arm that has a hand on the dog’s leash, main pocket half open, the latest Avengers’ binder ready to spill out.

Bucky shifts in his seat and sees the dog’s head tilt at the noise, though Barton’s hearing aids aren’t quite strong enough to pick up the movement.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Bucky says, and Barton’s eyes snap open. He makes an aborted movement, dropping the leash and attempting to fling the backpack towards the source of the noise at the same time, but the strap gets caught on his fingers, and the weight of the bag tips it over, contents tumbling to the ground.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Bucky!” Barton exclaims, one hand to his chest.

Bucky tips forward in his chair, the laughter spilling from his mouth uncontainable.

“What the fuck, man,” Barton gasps out, stepping away from the door cautiously. “You about gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you even doing here, sitting in the dark like some kind of fucking horror movie waiting to happen?”

Bucky wipes at his face, trying to urge his laughter down. It’s been a long while since he’s laughed like that. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Jesus Christ, you maniac,” Barton says, but there’s a tilt to his mouth that says he’s over his initial fear and is ready to see the humor in the situation.

“So, dog?” Bucky asks, nodding at the retriever who is rapidly making its way around the conference table after realizing Barton no longer had control of the leash.

Barton nods, the smile on his face growing. “This is Lucky. He’s really friendly. I hope you’re good with dogs—oh, shit, I didn’t think— I can get him back over here if you’re not.” He starts moving around the table, stopping as Bucky waves his hands.

“I’m good with dogs, no worries,” he says, just as Lucky arrives at his side, wet nose pressing into the crook of his right elbow. “Hey, buddy.”

He swivels the chair to the side and Lucky presses in closer, tongue lolling out. His front legs rub up against Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky spares a brief thought for the transference of mud and water. He leans forward to bring both hands up to frame the dog’s face. Lucky only has one eye, but the sheer joy and friendship that only canines can express shine through just as well as if he had two. His entire body is shaking from side to side, tail whacking up against one of the table legs with gentle thumps.

“Hey buddy,” he repeats, running his hands down Lucky’s neck. Soft hair rifles through his fingers, the sensations just barely different between his metal and flesh hands. He freezes, taking note of the metal between thick strands of gold.

Lucky looks at him and takes a step impossibly closer, letting out a snuffle.

“He loves getting pets,” Barton says softly from his seat at the other side of the table. “Especially on his head and under his scruff. He wants you to give him more, that’s what that face is all about.”

Bucky makes eye contact with the dog and sees only unrestrained pleasure and delight. He hesitantly resumes moving his hands back through his fur, infinitely more aware now of the placement of his metal hand. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t.” Barton’s voice displays a quiet confidence, an assurance Bucky feels is undeserved.

“You don’t know that,” Bucky says, smoothing the fur gently down along Lucky’s back. “I’m still figuring things out. I need to be careful.”

“But you are being careful,” Barton says. “Besides, petting a dog is like riding a bike—easier than that, maybe. Kids learn how to pet dogs before they learn how to ride bikes. Your body knows what it’s doing.”

Muscle memory is a misleading term; it’s the pathways in the brain that remember how to do things, not the constantly changing, tearing, and growing strands of muscle fiber in a body. So, in that regard, Bucky supposes Barton is correct. He leans into his ministrations, bringing both hands around to scratch at the underside of Lucky’s neck.

“Why’s he here, anyway? And so dirty?”

Barton laughs, a short, embarrassed thing. “I have a meeting with Coulson in a little bit before everyone else gets here. I got my times mixed up and arrived early, but was super frantic this morning trying to get everything taken care of, so I ended up bringing Lucky along cause Simone—that’s my neighbor—wasn’t gonna get home in time for me to drop him off. If I had read the time right, he’d be happy as a clam with Simone’s boys climbing all over him like he was a horse or something.”

Bucky smiles, letting go of Lucky with his prosthetic so he can straighten and look across at Clint. “Okay, and the mud?”

Barton winces, bringing his hand to his face as another embarrassed chuckle works its way out of his throat. His hoodie, worn thin at the wrists, slips down to expose a dirt-stained forearm. “Man, you know. It was muddy, there was a fire hydrant, maybe I wasn’t paying attention like I should’ve been, maybe I was rushing, maybe we could ignore it?”

Bucky smirks. That about tracks.

“I’ll let it slide, even though it looks like you were the one sliding down Main Street,” Bucky says. “You said you’re here for a meeting with Coulson?”

“Yeah,” Barton says with a sigh. “I’ve gotta talk to him about my hours. Last month, you remember, I had that mistake where I was late to my job at the center, had to run out of here, major goof on my part?” Bucky nods. “I can’t let that happen again, so I changed my hours at the center and quit the rest of my part time jobs, but I need to talk to Coulson about making sure he doesn’t schedule all-team meetings during the afternoons. That’s the only time I’m sticking to my work at the center.”

Barton looks down at the table, nose pinching at the sight of his dirty hands in front of him. He looks back up at Bucky, a resolve forming behind his eyes that makes Bucky feel a little like he’s looking at a different stubborn blonde. “I’ve been willing to change a lot for SHIELD, but I don’t want to give up my afternoon shifts with the kids until I really have to. Especially not before this school year is up. I’ve put in too much there to flake out on them like that.”

Bucky nods again in understanding. “They really mean a lot to you, then?”

Barton shakes his head with a rueful grin. “You have no idea.”

Bucky appreciates that about Barton. He thinks about the conversations he’s overheard Barton have with Natasha and of the explanations of the antics his kids have gotten up to, reenacted dramatically to Wanda. Barton shows no hesitation with his affection, nor his commitment to showing anyone and everyone who he cares about exactly how deep that affection runs.

“What you do there is important, isn’t it?” Bucky asks, then feels guilty for the implication that someone might assume otherwise. “I guess I don’t really know all that much about what you do, actually. I remember hearing about a food drive or something? It’s some kind of after school thing?”

Barton looks at him, gaze intent, frowning slightly. He tilts his head, then says, “Yeah, I think it’s really important. Just as important as what we do here, though Coulson might not agree. Kids are the future, and all that jazz, you know. It’s important to support them as teenagers so they can become the kinds of people they deserve to be, the kinds of people the world needs.”

“I get that,” Bucky agrees, thinking about his own lack of empathetic adult figures in his life as a teenager, how easy it’d been to accept and fall in to the promises of responsibility and respect told to him by that Army recruiter. “And what exactly is it you do?”

Barton tilts his head the other way, as though he can’t quite believe Bucky’s asking him about this. Bucky resumes scratching at the top of Lucky’s head, which he’d apparently abandoned, per the dog’s nudge to his hand.

“I’m an after-school activity coordinator,” Barton says slowly. “Basically like a glorified camp counselor. I meet the kids at the center Monday through Thursday for five or so hours, keep them entertained. We’ve got different clubs throughout the week, tutoring sessions, a Big Brother Big Sister program, all kinds of things. Mostly I’m just there to listen, though, help them figure things out. Life and stuff, you know”

“That’s really cool,” Bucky says, and means it. It’s nice to talk to Barton like this, learn about who he is outside of this fucked up situation they’ve all found themselves in. It’s different, listening to what the man has to say directly to him, instead of just through things observed and overhead from a distance. “They must think you’re pretty great.”

Barton flushes, eyes dropping down to the table again. “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh please,” Bucky scoffs, “You’re like a giant kid yourself, I’m sure they’re willing to talk to you about just about everything.”

Barton shrugs, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “I get by alright, I guess. It’s only sometimes that I piss them off or let them down.”

Bucky feels his forehead pinch, disgruntled by the way Barton’s able to so easily brush off his praise. “Adults are supposed to piss kids off though. And as long as you apologize, which I’m sure you do, it’s okay if you let people down once in a while.”

“That’s fair,” Barton says, glancing around the room before looking back at Bucky. “But anyway, enough about me. What are you doing here? Team Therapy Gone Wild isn’t supposed to meet until four, right?”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Barton’s deflection, but decides to let him get away with it for the time being. “I just like to arrive early, when I can.” He glances at his prosthetic.“ It’s easier.”

Barton catches his glance, then nods. “Fair. I remember the first time walking through a crowd after getting my aids, it was the most overwhelming shit. Took ages before I was able to adjust to the change, and most days I still have to consciously pay attention to the people I’m with to make out their voices above background noise. Do you wanna tell me about it?”

Bucky studies him, Barton’s blue eyes welcoming, a small, easy smile stretching across his mouth. There’s a spray of dirt across one cheek that fades into his freckles, and his current band aid is pale along his hairline. “Not really, but thanks for asking.”

Clint nods, smile still present. “That’s cool. If you ever do, though, you know I’d love to listen to what you have to say.”

The funny thing is, Bucky’s sure he’s telling the truth.

“I appreciate that.”

Barton grins at him, then whistles for Lucky. “I know your names rhyme, but you can’t go stealing my dog, Barnes. I already share him with enough people as it is.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky says, watching as the two reunite on the other side of the table, Barton opening his arms wide as Lucky crashes into his knees. They’re quite possibly perfect for each other.

“Hey,” Barton says, taking his head out from where he’s buried it in Lucky’s scruff. “I’m planning on going down to the range after our meeting, do you maybe wanna come with?”

Bucky knows that this isn’t meant any different than Steve’s well-intentioned suggestions for him to start training again, but somehow he isn’t bothered by Barton’s request in the same way. He knows that if he says no, Barton will be fine with it and won’t pressure him to go down to the range any sooner than he wants to. He knows that if he does say yes, Barton will be happy to have him along and he won’t hover over Bucky, checking in constantly or sending him concerned looks the entire time. He knows that chances are, Barton will make a fool of himself, be it by tripping or doing a ridiculous circus shot, which Bucky has yet to see. He knows that going down to the range with Barton might just be the easiest way to start regaining control of what makes him uncomfortable. He knows that he wants to say yes.

“What, you’re going to take your poor dog down to the range after this? Dragging him all the way to Manhattan wasn’t torture enough?” he asks, instead.

“Lucky’s the best arrow picker-upper,” Barton says defensively, taking Lucky’s face in his hands. “Aren’t you, boy? Even if you snap them in half most of the time?” He turns back to Bucky, pointing a finger at him. “Come on, you’ve gotta see it. He’s not called a golden _retriever_ for nothing.”

And how can Bucky argue with that?

“That seems like a solid argument,” Bucky says, feeling his own smile grow to mirror Barton’s.

“Damn straight it is,” Barton responds, a dimple appearing directly in the center of his largest mud splatter.

“Guess I’ll hafta see for myself.”

Barton releases one of his hands to pump a fist in the air. “Yeah you will!” He murmurs the same thing to his dog, then stands, gathering Lucky’s leash back in his hands. “I’ve gotta go see Coulson now; can’t ruin the one time I actually show up early somewhere. I’ll see you back here in a bit?”

Bucky nods. “Don’t forget everything you dropped out of your backpack.”

Barton’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he glances behind him at the floor. “Oh, right, that. Eh, I’ll be back later. I’ll get it all then.”

Bucky shakes his head, because why had he expected anything else? “How about you leave Lucky with me? Maybe not the best practice to show up to your boss’ office with a dog in tow, you know? Plus, we wouldn’t want him to pull you into another puddle on your way there.”

“You have disturbingly low expectations of my ability to get from point A to point B, don’t you?” Barton asks as he unhooks Lucky from his leash, backing towards the door.

“Just waiting on you to prove to me otherwise,” Bucky says, snapping his fingers to get Lucky’s attention.

Barton narrows his eyes, but has nothing to say to that. “I’ll be back soon. Thanks, Bucky.”

The door closes behind Barton, and Bucky’s suddenly got a lapful of golden retriever.

If Steve arrives thirty minutes later to find Bucky on the floor with the dog sprawled across his chest, at least it’s distracting enough to keep him from asking about the prosthetic again before the meeting starts.

* * *

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say here, Barton, I could definitely pull off a millennial hipster look.”

Clint absolutely cannot help it. He bursts out laughing, deep guffaws that only get worse when he sees the affronted expression on Bucky’s face.

“Right—right,” he says, trying to pull himself together, “because a stereotypical Brooklyn hipster is going to go to a farmers market with _anything_ like the scowl you’ve got permanently etched onto your face?”

Bucky huffs. “I mean, arguably yes, especially since it’s that one at Union Square on the weekends. We don’t like that kind of Manhattan elitist shit.”

The completely haughty tone he uses sends Clint into another spiral, his laughter turning into something that sounds shamefully like giggles. “Oh my god,” Clint wheezes, suddenly able to picture an entirely different version of the Bucky he knows, “I was so wrong, you are entirely Brooklyn hipster, aren’t you? Just gotta throw on some plaid, get you some fake tattoos, and aw man, if only we had time for you to grow out a beard.”

Bucky looks disgruntled and Clint can see him deciding whether he wants to take offense or not, so, naturally, Clint adds fuel to the fire. “In fact, I think this was _too_ good of an idea. Millennial hipster is off the table, Nat and Steve would be able to spot you in an instant. It’s too close to your natural state of being to be effective.”

Bucky glowers, flipping the sheets in the binder in front of him angrily. “I don’t know what I expected to happen being partnered with you.”

They’re in the middle of a week of practicing their undercover work, setting up for another three hour exercise tomorrow where they need to simultaneously evade detection and look for the other pair of Avengers that are out in their assigned one mile radius section of New York City. Each day they’re paired with a different partner to try on a new set of mannerisms, expressions, and identities.

Yesterday Clint had been paired with Bruce, and they’d gone for the divide and conquer route, Clint using a pair of crutches to alter his gait through the Lower East Side while Bruce had attempted to portray poise and confidence, walking tall in a suit similar to one Tony might wear. Clint had been found out within an hour, Natasha telling him that being hurt was way too indicative of reality to count as a real disguise. The day before that, Clint and Nat had worked their section of Brooklyn together as red-headed siblings while looking for Wanda and Steve, who they eventually found together as a husband and wife couple at a tourist tchotchke shop.

“Aw, Buck, you’re lucky you have me to steer you away from what could have been a grievous error,” Clint says, noting the faint smirk that’s flickering at the corner of Bucky’s lips.

“Grievous error? What are you trying to be, a fucking professor?” Bucky asks, then stops flipping, his head tilted to the side as he looks down at a particular point on the page. “Actually, how about that? College professors, or something similar. Young intellectuals, sweater vests and khakis, maybe a messenger bag? Glasses, those dorky ones?”

“I could see it for you, maybe,” Clint says, and he really, _really_ can. “The whole long hair thing would work in your favor. Plus, I think you might be more comfortable with the mannerisms that a professor might have. Oh, and pretending to be absent-minded could let you scan the area for our targets without raising suspicion.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair while thinking about it, and Clint notices that it’s his left, which is surprising. It was only a few weeks ago that Bucky was so nervous about his prosthetic that he’d been hesitant to pet Lucky with it, so for him to use it without thinking is important progress.

Also, if Clint’s being completely honest, the whole metal arm thing is a fucking _look_. It’s not just that the thing is sleek and sexy as hell, but the growth in comfort and confidence that Bucky’s started to ease into as a result? It’s inspiring a whole different level of attraction that Clint’s discovering he’s frankly unprepared for.

“I can see that. Maybe set up at a coffee shop that’s on the outskirts of the square…less movement would mean less chance of them seeing my arm, too,” Bucky says, then looks up at Clint, who hastens to tear his eyes away from the prosthetic. “How would that play out for you?”

Clint shrugs. “I could be another patron in a different part of the shop, or maybe at a different shop, if there’s one close enough so that I can stay within the required 100 yards.”

“I thought we had agreed to do this one as a pair,” Bucky points out, frown shifting in a way Clint hasn’t seen before. On someone else Clint would swear it was disappointment.

“I think the prof angle is too good for you not to go with it,” Clint says, shrugging again. 

“Hmm,” Bucky says, flipping back through the binder again. “You sure about that?I thought we talked about going in as a couple, since you went in as siblings with Nat yesterday, so she’s probably expecting us to split up today.”

“As much as I’d like to play your boyfriend, Buck, I think for that to be effective we’d have to develop some mannerisms I don’t know that either of us are ready for,” Clint admits. “You know, hand holding and stuff.”

Still looking down at the binder, Bucky mumbles something that Clint can’t quite make out before sighing and nodding. “That’s fair. Maybe if we had more time to practice for it.” He looks at his arm. “Sorry about this. Hopefully it won’t screw up our chances tomorrow too badly.”

Clint shakes his head rapidly, quickly glossing over the part of his brain that’s telling him that Bucky’s continued aversion to touch since losing and then regaining his arm is the only thing keeping him from wanting to hold Clint’s hand. “No, you’ll be fine. If either of us screw up, it’s gonna be me. Besides, the odds are stacked against us already—I’m convinced it’s completely unfair for any team that goes up against Nat.”

“Woman is insanely sneaky,” Bucky concedes. “At least she’s with Bruce. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll decide to go in as a pair, even out the playing field a little.”

“We can only hope,” Clint says, thinking back to when he’d been paired with Bruce yesterday, how long they’d had to work together before Bruce lost even part of the nervous tension through his upper back. “You’d think the man was stuck permanently in his giant green body with how conspicuously he walks through crowds. Our boy is not made for undercover work.”

“Yeah, we’d have a better chance waiting on Stevie to stand _down_ from perceived injustice than relying on Bruce to sneak us in anywhere.” Bucky meets Clint’s eyes with a devious smirk. “Hell, we’d have a better chance relying on Stevie to join the motherfucking Republican Party than banking on Brucie to successfully sneak under anyone’s radar.”

And if that smirk isn’t the damnedest thing.

“Bucky Barnes, did you just intentionally make a joke? A joke that insulted not only Bruce, but your best friend, the one and only Steven Rogers?”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle up around the corners, immediately disproving Clint’s hypothesis because that genuine happiness right there is infinitely, infinitely more damning.

“Hey, I’ve been known to make jokes every once in a while,” he protests, then his smirk grows deeper and he leans forward, hands stilling on the binder. “Especially when I’m surrounded by idiot clowns like you.”

Clint has grown pretty used to being called an idiot by a variety of people, and since meeting Natasha, he’s learned that the slur can be used as a term of endearment when delivered the right way. And with how Bucky’s saying it now? Well, it’s definitely not an insult, not said in that tone.

Clint chuckles, looking away to avoid Bucky’s eyes, even as he can feel a faint warmth settle in his stomach. It’s nice that Bucky is opening up to him like this, finding comfort in his presence. “Hey man, watch it. You’re going to hurt my feelings, and how is that going to help us win tomorrow?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m saying you’re easy to be around, idiot. That’s hardly an insult.”

Bucky really has opened up a lot over the past few weeks since getting his prosthetic. He’s met up with Clint a couple times down on the range, nearly matching Clint shot for shot with rifles. He’d even asked to see some of his more ridiculous circus routines, which Clint had grudgingly dusted off, much to his embarrassment. But the clown, the idiot, the goofball: those are all roles Clint’s comfortable in. He knows that every group needs someone like that, someone to be the butt of their jokes, someone to break tense moments with an inappropriately timed wisecrack, someone to feign forgetfulness so that someone more deserving can step in and boost their own confidence. He’s good being that guy for the Avengers, especially if it helps Bucky feel more comfortable with himself.

It’s nice that he can be useful to Bucky and the team in this way.

“You know me, I’m a regular dumpster fire,” Clint says, ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes narrow as though he doesn’t understand where Clint’s coming from. “Hey, there’s an outdoor yoga class at the Greenmarket tomorrow, what do you think about me using that as my cover?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in case you were wondering, Bucky is highly on board for Clint doing yoga as his cover)
> 
> (also I wrote the entire last scene with Bucky as a millennial hipster before realizing it really was out of character for them, and proceeded to sadly backspace line by line, erasing the millennial Buck of my dreams one floral snapback and reusable tote bag at a time)
> 
> UP NEXT: team hydrangea is back on their shit.


	6. Regression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey so did you know that Hydra is actually a real threat? Apparently this job involves fighting them._

A month later, the team is in the air on the way to their first tactical infiltration of a Hydra bunker, and Clint is 100 percent over group planning and 100 percent looking for anyway to distract himself.

“You’re gonna let me pilot this on the way back, right, May?” Clint asks eagerly, leaning over the back of the pilot’s chair.

Agent May scoffs and reaches a hand back to shove him away. “Not on your life, Barton. You know better than that.”

“Aw, come on,” Clint whines, stepping up beside her and running his hands lightly over the various buttons in the console. “I mean, my call sign is Hawkeye, and hawks are birds. Therefore, I am meant to be flying.” He flinches back from her hand as it smacks the top of his, then busies himself poking around just out of her reach.

They’re currently cruising at an altitude of 40,000 feet at a blistering speed, cloaking devices engaged. May is the only non-Avengers personnel on the flight besides Coulson, who will be running the op from the Quinjet. Bruce will be staying on board too, acting as both an on-site science expert and failsafe in case things go really, really south. Bruce hasn’t actually gone on any missions with the sole intent of bringing out his giant green alter-ego, but he seems to be pretty alright with that. Today he’ll be able to liaise between the Avengers on the ground when they hit the labs in the compound and the trusted team of scientists back at SHIELD if needed.

“Come talk to me when Coulson and Fury have both cleared you and you’ve gone through extensive training, _Hawkeye_ ,” May says, her voice somehow simultaneously condescending and teasing. “Until then, I’m not letting you near these controls.” 

“Not even a little bit?” Clint wheedles. He works with teenagers; he knows damn well how to whine.

“Not even an inch.” May doesn’t even deign to glance at him. “Don’t you have a pre-mission briefing to be paying attention to right now?”

Clint sighs and glances towards the back of the jet, where most of the group is gathered around a table in the middle, blueprints and logistics weighted down by some fancy magnetic tech that Clint won’t pretend to understand. “Yeah, I should. My job’s pretty simple though. You know snipers: I’m in, I wait, I shoot, I move around a little, I wait again. Besides, I doubt they even realize I’m not there.”

May snorts, eyes trained on the clouds in front of her. “Sure, simple. Because being a sniper is so easy. Regardless, I doubt Coulson wants you up here bothering me, so go on, get.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Clint says.

When he gets to the back of the jet where everyone is grouped together around a drafting table covered with papers, he slips between Wanda and Natasha, the former who gives him a wide smile before looking back at the table, the latter who pinches the inside of his arm for his tardiness.

“Wanda, you feel good about this?” Steve asks, hands braced on the edge of the other side of the table.

“Yes, Captain, Cap.” Wanda’s got a playful smile on her face as she practices using Steve’s call sign. “We have done much training with these maneuvers. I think it will be fine.”

Steve huffs, and Clint bites back a chuckle. Steve had been reluctant to use the military-esque moniker as his call sign, but once Tony had suggested it, they all agreed; it just _fit._ Then Bucky had launched into a tirade about how most military rank is inflated anyways, and how if Steve accepted it, he’d essentially be performing a giant ‘fuck you’ to all the self-important men up their former chain of command. Steve had quickly latched onto the idea after that, explaining to the rest of them how they’d seen so much circumstantial discrimination in the Army, with many of their immensely qualified poor or dark-skinned peers overlooked for whiter alternatives; how the school to military pipeline deliberately brought Army recruiters to low-income, non-white neighborhoods, while sending elite officers to private schools in hopes of recruiting rich white kids directly into officer training.

So yeah, Steve was okay being Cap.

Steve turns his commanding gaze over to Clint, eyes serious. “And you, Hawkeye, are you confident with your role?”

“Yeah, Cap, no big. Start at point A, knock out the tech with Stark’s fancy jammer thingies, wait until Widow and Winter make it to the lab, then move to point B to cover exits. Easy money.” Clint moves his hands along the map to trace his route. “And it’s extra exciting, because air vents.”

“Only you would get excited about using the ventilation system during a mission,” Natasha sighs.

“Well, yeah.” Clint scrunches his eyebrows in confusion, because who wouldn’t? “You can’t tell me that using the vents isn’t downright the most spy thing you’ve ever heard of. I feel like I’m a less British James Bond—or, ooh—even better, like I’m in Spy Kids III.”

“That’s why you’re excited about it?” Bucky speaks up from where he’s leaning back against the wall behind Steve. “Every day I think you can’t possibly act more like a child, and then you surprise me again with dumb shit like this.”

Clint grins widely at him and winks. “Someone’s gotta be the kid around here, and unfortunately,” he nudges Wanda beside him, who despite being nearly 10 years his junior is infinitely more mature, “this one ain’t cutting it.”

Bucky snorts, then moves up besides Steve. He reaches down to tap his index fingeragainst the center of one of the blueprints, metal glinting in the fluorescent lights. Clint resists, again, the urge to comment or reach out, because Bucky’s prosthetic is _gorgeous._

“Code for the lab will be 7821, a two second pause, followed by 9034,” Bucky says, lower lip pulled between his teeth. “Estimated six operatives on the way in, zero coming out due to perimeter monitoring. Widow on intel, me on surveillance, take the scientists with us if possible.”

Steve nods in confirmation, then glances down at Wanda meaningfully.

“Oh, yes, and Cap and I will be waiting to create distraction, by the far end, when we get the orders,” Wanda says hastily.

Steve nods again, a pleased expression settling on his face. “Sound good, Agent Coulson?”

Coulson unclasps his hands from behind his back. “Yes, I think you’re all as ready as can be at this point. Spend the next few minutes reviewing exit strategies and contingencies. Bruce, a word?”

He steps away from the table, Bruce following behind. Steve pulls out one of his binders and settles into applying exit and escape strategies onto their current mission. And Clint, well, it’s not that he doesn’t pay attention, exactly, it’s just that he’s gone through all of this already. Several times. Including this morning. So when his gaze drifts and he doesn’t really hear what Steve’s saying, he can’t precisely blame it on his bad hearing.

Instead, he finds himself looking at Bucky, who looks like he also isn’t paying the closest attention. God, Steve probably has him reviewing contingency plans in the middle of the night at their apartment, if Clint had to guess. Bucky is looking down at the table with his arms crossed, in theory able to deceive Steve into thinking he’s focused, but Clint can tell by the blank look in his eyes that he’s somewhere else instead. Clint inches his hand forward into Bucky’s line of sight, flexes his fingers in a way that could be perceived as incidental, but it serves his purpose; Bucky jolts, gaze tracking up Clint’s extended arm to make eye contact. Clint furrows his brow, tilts his head at his own left hand down between him and Wanda, points at Bucky with it, then finger spells [ _O.K.]_? 

Bucky squints, then nods, raising his eyebrows and glancing at his metal arm before meeting Clint’s eyes again and giving a shrug. Yeah, Clint isn’t surprised. This was their first contact mission since Bucky’d gotten the new arm from Tony, the first time Bucky would be actively called to use it as a weapon. Clint doesn’t think Bucky knows enough ASL at this point to understand if Clint tries to communicate something like “you got this” or “I believe in you”, so he offers a wide smile instead, hoping it conveys his faith in Bucky’s abilities.

Clint jumps as Natasha’s fingers come to rest on the inside of his elbows in warning, and he tunes back into what Steve’s saying.

“I think we’re good. I don’t want to beat a dead horse with this, so let’s take the last 15 to settle in and prep,” Steve instructs, then begins to roll up the blueprints neatly.

“Sure thing, Cap,” Clint says in harmony with everyone else’s various muttered agreements.

Clint makes his way over to the weapons locker and pulls out his bow and the two quivers he and Tony had prepped for this mission. One fits in a traditional position across his back, the other in a modified thigh holster which Tony had laughingly told him was only possible due to the excessive length of his legs. Clint had made a tacky joke about the various lengths of other parts of his body, then just about passed out in embarrassment when a glass shattered behind him from where Bucky was standing in the lab, testing the pressure and grip of his new prosthetic. It was a coincidence, he’s sure, but that didn’t help the matching flush on both his and Bucky’s faces.

Clint straps on the thigh holster and performs a few quick calisthenics, satisfied with the gripping technology that keeps the arrows in place as he moves.

“Jeez, Barton, you know it’s a mission, not a performance under the round top you’re getting ready for?” Bucky steps beside him, reaching into the locker for his weapons. He slides three handguns into various holsters, then straps in a few knives across his body. He kneels as he puts two in place at his ankles, then shakes his hair back from his face to smirk up at Clint appreciatively.

“What, you have a problem with me getting limber?” Clint asks.

“Not in the slightest,” Bucky says, standing back up. Then he _fucking winks_ at Clint before patting himself down, checking the placement of the different weapons. “You all good?”

“Golden,” Clint chokes out, and grasps the grip of his compound bow a little tighter. He walks over to the seats along the left side of the jet, and Bucky follows after swinging a gear bag up and over his shoulder, cinched tight, which he and Natasha will use throughout their part of the mission. Clint unhooks his thigh holster and sets it and the bow across his lap as Bucky sits down beside him.

Clint studies the ground in front of them for a moment before looking directly at Bucky. They’re close, sitting alongside each other like this. “So really, you’re good? Arm okay? Head okay?”

He can see Bucky’s smirk in his profile, the crinkle of his eyes and twist of his lips, then the shake of his head as he huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah, good as I ever am. Tech wise, I think the arm is good.” He exhales loudly, stormy gaze searching the room. “Still think getting the arm was the right decision. Still mostly think it the right choice.”

Wanda and Natasha are sitting together, heads bowed towards each other. Clint can see Wanda’s small smile, and wonders what Natasha is saying to keep her mind off of things. Nat’s good, like that. Steve has gathered together all of the papers, and is over with Coulson and Bruce, presumably to discuss the contingency plans that involve a Code Green.

“Glad you feel that way,” Clint tells Bucky. “And this mission is a good one, right? You feel good about choosing to be here? This Hydra outpost an acceptable target?”

Bucky looks at him quickly, expression easing when he realizes Clint isn’t trying to make a joke out of his difficulty in trusting SHIELD or himself. Clint wishes he would go ahead and realize Clint wasn’t ever going to do that, but he tries not to take it personally.

“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky says. His fingers—all ten of them—are drumming nervously across the top of his thighs. Clint reaches out a hand without thinking, halting Bucky’s nervous movement. They both freeze, Bucky’s eyes scanning Clint’s face.

Clint inhales sharply, then squeezes the hand he’d landed on, the metal one, briefly, before withdrawing his hand, slowly returning it to his own lap. He’d keep holding on if he thought Bucky would be okay with it, and another time, when they weren’t about to launch an attack on a Hydra bunker, and Bucky wasn’t about to use his source of self-doubt as a weapon for the first time, Clint thinks Bucky really might be okay with it. “You’ve thought about this a lot, and hey, there’s a whole team behind you, with you. You’re choosing to be here with us, and we’re happy you’re here.”

Bucky nods, hands still in his lap, expression inscrutable. He shifts his metal hand so that it bumps up against the side of Clint’s leg, knocks it gently, then says, “Happy I’m here.” Clint’s not sure if Bucky’s just repeating what he’d said or if it’s his own sentiment, but he smiles in return anyways.

“Comms check,” Steve calls out, and Clint brings his hand up to the back of his ears, flicking the switch on his aids to initiate the communications channel. There’s a nanosecond of feedback as everyone in the jet boots theirs on at the same time, then silence.

“Cap is a go,” Steve says.

“Scarlet is a go,” Wanda says next, wiggling her fingers as though preparing for her namesake red magic to begin.

“Banner on board, Hulk on standby,” Bruce says from his newly acquired seat next to Agent May.

“Widow ready,” Natasha murmurs, winking at Clint. He’d been the one to suggest the name, recalling a particularly vicious divorce case Natasha had been involved in early in her career that resulted in a local newspaper likening her courtroom tactics to a particular spider known for murdering mates. Natasha had downright cackled when Clint showed her the headline in the papers that summer, and agreed easily when he suggested it for SHIELD. They still haven’t told the rest of the team their reasoning.

“Hawkeye ready,” Clint responds to her wink in kind, then nudges Bucky.

“Winter confirmed,” Bucky completes the in-person sound off quietly.

A single second of silence passes.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Tony jeers over their comms, “You’re seriously refusing to say Winter is coming? That would’ve been so _good_ , and it fits!”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say, Tony,” Coulson grinds out, his eyes closed, clearly restraining a less professional response.

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbles. “Can’t have you guys forgetting my beautiful face and marvelous wit just because I’m not there in person with you all. Ironman is a go, tech support at your every beck and call, prepare to be dazzled.”

Clint feels a moment of trepidation at Tony’s words before _Shoot to Thrill_ suddenly erupts throughout the Quinjet, the opening chords blasting for a solid five seconds before May finds the off switch.

“Ironman, focus.” The words squeeze out from between Coulson’s clenched teeth.

“Sorry about it, thought you could use some hype music.” Tony’s tone is absolutely unapologetic over the comms. “Would you prefer the Mission Impossible theme song instead? Because you know, I can definitely—“

“We’re good, thanks,” Coulson interrupts. “Avengers, prepare to land and disembark.”

Clint catches Bucky’s eye and finds him smirking beside him. Clint can’t help it; when they touch down, he’s laughing, hands tight against his stomach.

And if there are multiple times where he has to physically bite his tongue to prevent residual chortles from escaping as he settles into his first position, well.

* * *

A few strands of hair, escaped from Natasha’s tight braid, flick in the breeze as she peers out from the tree nearest the entrance. Bucky waits just behind her, one hand laid over the holster at his hip. It’s a habit he’s fallen back into concerningly easily.

“Hawkeye, confirm placement of signal jammers.” Steve’s voice comes in through their ears.

“First target confirmed. And….”there’s a faint twang of bowstring that Bucky can just hear, “second target confirmed.”

“Ironman, do you read?” Steve continues briskly.

“Copy, Roger that, Cap,” Stark says lightly, then chuckles. “Wow, have you got the perfect name for this.”

Natasha glances at Bucky over her shoulder, and lowers three fingers in descending order.

“Ironman.” Steve exhales exactly as Natasha’s final finger drops, and there’s a quick twitch in the corner of her lips. Bucky can’t say he’s not impressed. “Are the jammers working, are you in, are we good to go?”

“What? Oh, yes, you’re good. Signals are jammed. I’ve got control over the video feeds, any outgoing communication will go through me and a five minute delay.”

“Widow, Winter, that’s you,” Steve orders, and the two are already on their way.

As they sprint towards the metal bunker in the middle of the clearing, Bucky is in awe of how Natasha moves, not for the first time. Sure, he and Steve may have gotten some extra speed in addition to their bulk, but whatever the blast hit Natasha with, it’s clearly capitalizing on her innate grace. She’s practically floating, and if Bucky was the type to admit to watching it, he’d say she looks like those stupid sparkling vampires from that stupid teen series from the stupid mid-2000s.

They reach the entrance at the same time and split themselves with the door between them. Natasha meets Bucky’s eyes as they wait for a half second, then the door opens with a metallic creak, two heavily kitted out men in all black stepping into the sunlight.

Right on time.

Natasha goes low while Bucky goes high, sweeping her leg out to take out their shins while Bucky extends his metal arm to effectively clothesline the first man. He stumbles, and Natasha is _there_ in an instant, pressing the high-voltage tasers around her wrists to the side of his neck. Bucky, meanwhile, steps forwards and blocks the second man’s initial confused swing with his right arm, before delivering a resounding punch to his temple with his metal fist. The man falls back like a stone, body collapsing against the wall beside the door he’d just emerged from.

Bucky shakes out both his hands, then looks down at Natasha, who’s still crouched over the other man. They pause, listening. There aren’t any other sounds coming from inside the building or surrounding forest.

“Well, that was effective,” Natasha says, then stands to drag the first man beside the second. Straightening and wiping her hands together, she radios in. “First two are down, Winter and Widow going in.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Hawkeye, are you on the move?”

“Halfway to the roof now, Cap,” Barton says cheerily. “Was just able to see the dubs in action, and can I say _damn_. I think it took all of four seconds?”

“You cannot, actually,” Steve says. “No chatter over the comms. Focus.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” Barton says, adding a moment later, “Okay, I’m to the ducts. Jesus it’s dirty in there.”

Bucky resists taking advantage of that opening, partly because he doesn’t want to deal with Steve bemoaning his lack of solidarity later, partly because Steve is kind of right, they should stay focused. He nods at Natasha, and they enter the building, both with guns in hand.

Natasha takes point, creeping along the wall on light feet. They’re paired together to combine complementary skill sets, splitting up the two blunt force hitters between Natasha and Wanda. Whatever the radiation did to them in the explosion, it affected everyone differently, and Bucky and Steve were the only ones who seemed to have gained advanced healing capabilities. Outside of Bruce, of course, who became entirely impervious to anything whenever he transformed into his giant alter-ego.

Natasha stops when she reaches the second turn off, hand up in a [ _stop_ ] sign. He watches her hand closely as she angles her gaze around the corner, then dashes across the opening as soon as her finger begins to twist to point. He puts his back up against the wall, and reads her hands as they tell him what’s waiting, relying on the vocabulary Coulson has been drilling them on for months. It’s not so different from the hand signals they’d used in the Army, if more descriptive. [ _Two men, 30 feet, both guns, one man chair left, man not chair gun ready, direction north]._ He takes a second to translate. There are two armed guards 30 feet down at the end of the hallway, one seated, the other standing with his weapon out. Both are facing north towards the other hallway, which means that Bucky and Natasha will be attacking from the side, the standing man the closest target.

Bucky nods, then signs back, _[Me first?]_ He points at his arm. Natasha nods, then gives him another three finger countdown. As the final finger falls, Bucky exhales, then whips himself around the corner.

Thirty feet isn’t so far for someone with super speed, Bucky has found in the past few months of training. It’s still far enough for the guards to hear him and get their guns up. The first man, who already had his weapon out, is able to get a shot off a few seconds before Bucky descends on him. Bucky changes his trajectory in anticipation of the shot, swerving to the side and ducking under the arm with the gun extended, slipping one hand under the man’s forearm, his other hand snapping the gun from out of his hand. Bucky flings the gun backwards and away as the man cries out, which is signal enough for Natasha to start sprinting down the hallway.

Meanwhile, the man who had been seated on the far side of the door is fumbling with his gun, hands scrabbling at the latch stuck across the handle. Bucky feels a brief moment of pity, because this is the last situation you want your holster to act up, but also, why does he not have a Kydex holster for quick access— before he capitalizes on the technical error and pulls the man by the arm, swinging him forward, away from the seat and towards the opposing wall.

He follows the momentum as he tosses the man, and is hit abruptly in the back by the chair the second man had vacated, splinters flying as the chair cracks. Bucky flinches forward with the blow, but doesn’t turn to face his assailant, trusting Natasha to arrive in time. He stays focused instead on the second man, who has just face planted the wall in front of them and is reeling backwards. Bucky brings his metal fist up behind him, and has a split second of panic as the plates in his arm whir before he makes contact with the back of the man’s neck. Bucky feels bones give, and swears the resulting crack is just as loud as the chair over his back a moment before.

A second later, there’s a familiar buzz that sends static into the air, an unpleasant gurgle, then a thump. He turns, and Natasha is on top of the first guard, whose limbs are quaking with residual electricity. They stare at each other for a moment, then Bucky looks back at the guard whose neck he’d just broken with an overpowered punch.

“Shit,” he says lowly. The plates in his arm whir back in mocking response.

“Winter, report.” Steve’s voice comes in sharp through his ears, and Bucky jolts.

“All good, two more down,” Bucky says, fighting to keep his voice calm. Natasha’s studying his face, and quirks her eyebrows in question. Bucky shrugs. He signs [ _Let’s go_ ]. She nods and stands, and Bucky is grateful that she’s content for the moment to not press.

“Location?” Steve asks.

“Third hallway,” Natasha whispers, prowling forward. “Two more turns and we’ll be at the stairwell, then two flights down and we’ll be at the lab.”

“We’re good on my end,” Stark says. “Feeds are all looping, your path behind and before you aren’t showing up in the control room.”

They make it through the next two turns without issue, slipping quickly into the stairwell after the code Natasha memorized quickly buzzes them through. Natasha motions for him to stop before they exit the stairwell, and they lock eyes, breathing together for a moment. With all her efficiency and poise, Bucky finds it hard to remember that Natasha is just as inexperienced as the rest of them. Six months ago the only action she partook in was the verbal kind, whipping prosecutors and perpetrators into shape up and down the court room with a vicious tongue and irrefutable evidence. She blinks once at him, then slowly cracks the door. It opens silently, and he looks past her over her shoulder.

Two more men stand guard outside the door which hosts their ultimate target, a lab that supposedly holds more information and evidence about the radiation testing that had been happening at the warehouse in Brooklyn. Banner theorizes it’s a similar set up, possibly containing some of the materials they’d seen loaded into vans that night. Natasha eases the door closed, then turns to face Bucky, briefly crouching to lay one of the charges she brought with her against the wall.

“Guns this time?” She whispers. “Open the door, I’ll fire, you run forward to get to them before they fall?”

Bucky nods. He probably should’ve used a gun in the former altercation, and she probably knows it. Even though the result of this mission will end with this entire bunker in flames, he finds it hard to default to lethal force. “Got it. You got the silencer on?”

She nods with a smirk. Silencers are useful, but their names aren’t really accurate. Gunshots are loud, and it’d probably be better to call silencers mufflers, instead. “There shouldn’t be anyone else on this floor, though, except in the lab, and blueprints show these walls as thick enough that they shouldn’t be able to hear us.”

Bucky knows this. They all do; Steve has been drilling the facts into them for a week now, and Bucky’s sure he’ll remember the exact specifications of this base for the foreseeable future.

“Ready, Widow?”

“Ready, Winter.”

Natasha steps out of his way, and he rips the door open, a small part of his brain taking note of the hinges as they bend backwards a little too far. He sees both of the guard’s faces turn to them, expressions shifting into something close to fear and surprise, before there are four quick shots from behind him, and both men stumble backwards. Bucky sprints the short distance as fast as he can, and catches the first, then second man as they fall, pressing their bodies between his and the wall. He manages to slow his body just in time to prevent himself from slamming forward, which would be counterintuitive to the whole subtlety thing they are going for.

Bucky lowers them slowly to the ground, and one of the men moves, hand drifting towards his side, where both a gun and walkie-talkie are holstered. Bucky kneels on his hand before he’s able to access either, and brings his arm up to put pressure on the man’s throat. They’re close together, too close, and he watches the man’s purpling face as his breath wheezes, eyelids flickering, then closing.

“Good one,” Natasha says, stepping around him to get to the keypad next to the door. Bucky doesn’t answer. She enters the code.

Bucky shifts both men’s inert forms up against the wall, then stands.

Natasha enters the code again.

“Cap,” she says, voice tight, “the code isn’t working.”

“Ironman, can you hack it?” Steve asks immediately, and Stark’s response is just as rapid.

“No, that’s why we need the code to begin with, there’s a firewall in place I would need time to get access to. There needs to be a manual override from the control room in order to get that door open without a code.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, filler words coming out as he tries to think of a plan. Bucky shifts in place, and looks at Natasha. She’s got her back to him, head bowed, hand resting gently on the keypad. If she’s panicking nearly as much as he is, she’s got years of experience to help her hide it.

“Oh hey, I could drop into the control room,” Barton offers casually. “If I remember the blueprint right, I just need to make a left up here and then I’ll be right above it.”

There’s a moment of silence while everybody contemplates this development. Barton fills it. “I mean, there’s only gonna be one guy, right? I can drop in and knock him out, no big deal. Ironman, if you’ve got eyes on my body cam, then you can make sure I press all the right buttons after that.”

“That…that should work,” Steve says.

“Yeah cool, don’t land on your head when you fall out,” Tony agrees.

“Don’t be stupid in there, durak.” Natasha is as kind as ever.

“Awesome, don’t everyone get too excited about it,” Barton grumbles, and they all listen to the _swish swish_ of his elbows sliding along the ducts. “Okay, I’m here, dropping down in three, two—” There’s the sound of a vent creaking open, then a thump and a solid _thwack._

“A plus for my landing, the aerial boys would be so proud,” Barton says. “That’s circus speak for the rest of you heathens. Ironman, tell me what I’m doing.”

“Ooh, what is this, the NASA control room from Apollo 13? Come on Hydra, get out of the seventies. It didn’t look good on Tom Hanks, and it doesn’t look good on you,” Stark says. “Alright, head to the wall of videos over there. Now look at the top left corner, watch closely.”

“Oh hey, it’s Nat and Bucky,” Barton says, like he’s just run into them unexpectedly at Central Park.

“That’s right, give Barton a little wave through the camera up to your right, assassin twins,” Stark says gleefully.

“Focus,” Bucky and Steve growl at the same time. “We’re on a time crunch here, Ironman,” Steve adds.

“Jeez, alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. Hawkeye, is there a number on that screen anywhere? One of the corners?”

“Yeah, it says 3A.”

“Great, on the panel to the left they probably have it organized by the same system. Find 3A there.”

Bucky shifts again while Barton searches. Any time spent in the hallway is time closer to their deadline. Steve had built a few extra minutes into their timeline for the mission, but Bucky hates to actually have to use them.

“Got it,” Barton says a few seconds later. “Are you getting visuals on this? Which button or switch should I press?”

Stark hums. “Never the big red one, despite what media would have you believe,” he says. “And that black lever is definitely out, it’s much too boring. I don’t like the placement of those two Y/N buttons, either.”

“You’re deciding this based on your preferences?” Steve’s whisper is harsh, edging towards outrage.

“Of course not, Cappie. This is all based on statistics; I had JARVIS run a few simulations. It’s the third gray button from the right, by the way.”

Bucky hears an ill-contained wordless noise from Steve, and it almost makes him smile.

“Here goes, then,” Barton says.

There’s a hiss and thunk as the door Natasha’s standing in front of unlatches. She grabs the handle, Bucky nods, and they jump inside to the soundtrack of Stark’s crows of success.

The lab they step into is multilevel, and they’re on the upper level at the top of a set of stairs. Spread out below them behind a railing are several large machines, a dock full of computers, and a variety of tables covered in charts, papers, and various bits of metal. Bucky scans the room quickly, eyes alighting on two people in white coats, hunched together over a computer, backs to the door. He takes a knife out of one of the holsters across his chest and flings it in their direction. He follows his knife, vaulting over the railing. The knife lands in the center of the monitor, and both scientists turn quickly, flinching away from the shatter of the screen. The one on the left is older, gray hair at her temples pulled back into a severe bun. The one on the right looks petrified, the dark skin around her eyes stretched tight in surprised fear.

“Don’t move,” Natasha says from her position at the top of the stairs, gun pointing in their direction.

Bucky stalks forward and stops in front of them, trying to look menacing. He lets the plates on his arm groan and whir and does his best imitation of Steve staring down a bigoted asshole. It seems to be effective, as the two women shrink down before him.

Behind him, he hears Natasha begin to flit around. She narrates as she walks. “Hulk, Ironman are you reading my body cam? I’ve got 1, 2…5…11 monitors in this bay, where do you want the fob?”

Bucky reaches into the equipment bag that’s clinging tightly to his back, so far unused. He brings it to his front and pulls out two lengths of rope. “Your arms,” he says, holding one out towards the older scientist.

“I don’t want anything—” she starts to say, mouth twisting down.

“Your arms,” Bucky repeats, and steps closer. “It’s better for you this way.”

“Mohr, perhaps we should just go with them,” the younger scientist says pleadingly.

Mohr narrows her eyes, but extends her arms, wrists together. Bucky breathes an internal sigh of relief, because god, as soon as they’d opened their mouths, their humanity was just too much. The younger one steps forward easily, and Bucky binds her wrists together as well.

“To the stairs,” he says gruffly, jerking his gun over his shoulder to indicate their path. He follows behind them closely, nudging the older woman in the back as she pauses at a particular table.

“Widow, this table, make sure you get it in the footage, see if Ban—Hulk thinks anything is worth taking with us,” Bucky says, and Mohr’s shoulders slump in front of him.

They get to the stairs and Bucky has them stop, standing a few steps away. He watches as Natasha continues around the room, picking up various items as Banner and Stark instruct her to do so, pausing and adjusting her location for the best camera footage at their discretion. There won’t be another chance to see any of this once they leave, after all.

Bucky studies some of the machines while Natasha completes her errands. One looks like a giant cylinder, some cross between an MRI machine and an Egyptian sarcophagus, welded steel ominous in the cavernous room. Another looks like, by Bucky’s best guess, one of those full-body scanners that most airports have now,clear class on the sides so that TSA can watch as a person stands with their hands above their heads. Bucky spares a thought for the awkwardness he’s going to face the next time he flies commercial with his new prosthetic.

“I think we’re good, Widow,” Banner says over the comms.

“Agreed,” Stark says, “Just make sure to give me a half second in front of the electrical panel by the door before you leave.”

“Got it,” Natasha confirms, then ejects the thumb drive from where she’d put it in one of the computers, sticking it in a special pocket on her own gear bag. She reaches into her bag one more time and takes out one of the charges, a nondescript black box, threatening only if one knows what it is, and places it at the base of the bay of computers. “Two of four set.”

She zips the bag closed, the next charge and a roll of duct tape in hand, and slinks up to Bucky and the two scientists. There’s a sinister smile on her face that Bucky is suddenly very, very glad to not be the recipient of. She rips off two pieces of tape and presses them against the scientists’ mouths. “Was going to threaten you to be quiet. Now, I do not have to.”

Bucky wonders where the Russian accent is coming from, then decides that wherever it’s from, he’d like to order himself one of those as the younger scientist begins to literally shake in her clogs.

“Damn, Nat, pulling out all the stops!” Barton’s whisper is admiring in Bucky’s ear.

“Is my accent scary like that, too?” Wanda asks, concerned.

“Not quite.” Stark sounds like he’s choking. Bucky gets it; thinking of Wanda as scary is like thinking of a tiny kitten as scary. Unless, of course, one considers her powers; then, she’s downright terrifying.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says, and urges the scientists up the stairs behind Natasha.

“Time to make your way to the exit,” Steve says, _as if they aren’t doing exactly that_. “Two more charges to drop out the back way. You remember where?”

“Yes,” Natasha says, turning her torso briefly to get a shot of the electrical panel. “Ready, Winter?”

He nods and they step back into the hallway. They make it two legs into their journey in the opposite direction they came from when Natasha kneels to lay the next charge in a corner deemed most likely to cause irreparable structural damage.

“Three of four set,” she says, and begins to continue down the hallway, but she doesn’t make it more than two steps before Barton’s fierce whisper interrupts her.

“Shit, stop, stop. I’m almost out, and there’s unknowns incoming, entering through the exit you’ll be at soon. Cap, why are they here, this was not in the plan.”

“More details, Hawkeye, I need more than that,” Steve says. “Scarlet and I are on the other side of the complex about to initiate the distraction.”

“Um, five, no six unknowns. Four are guards, two more…not guards? Civilians? Not carrying anyway, from what I can see.”

“What direction?” Steve’s words grate in Bucky’s ears, as tight with tension as Bucky’s muscles are, clenched and frozen in the hallway.

“South. They’re definitely headed towards the stairwell down.”

“That’s us,” Natasha murmurs, voice cold.

“Shit, shit, okay, let me, I can draw their attention once they pass me,” Barton whispers. “Drop from the ducts behind them, if Nat and Buck are coming up—"

“No, Hawkeye, that’s not—give me a minute, I think I can sprint around the outside,” Steve interjects.

“They don’t have a minute,” Barton whispers hastily. “‘Sides, this is what I’m supposed to do, right? Cover their exit?” Bucky can hear his breath, quick and heavy over the comms.

“Your bow, Hawkeye, that’s what you have it for,” Stark interjects.

“Can’t, won’t get the right angle on most of them, they’ll be out of my sight lines and I’ll be a sitting duck,” Barton responds. “In the ducts. Oh shit, sorry, not the time. I gotta get on their level.”

“Clint, Cap says no,” Natasha says, the pitch of her voice rising. She throws a look over her shoulder at Bucky, and begins to sprint towards the stairwell. Bucky prods the two scientists behind her, urging them forward none too gently.

“It makes sense, guys,” Barton says, and when Bucky strains, he thinks he can hear the unscrewing of a vent cover. “Okay, they’re past. Heading down.”

Bucky feels his heart freeze in his chest, hears Natasha’s gasp up ahead of him, and feels a bead of sweat wind its way down his back. A moment later, he hears gunfire in his eardrums, the swears of several teammates, and Clint’s slightly hysterical laughter.

“Move!” He yells at the scientists. “Move or you’ll be left behind when this place blows in five minutes!”

They take him at his word and start running after Natasha, who’s just vanished into the stairwell, having entered the same code from earlier at breakneck speed. Halfway up the two flights, Bucky grows tired of their slowness, and grabs both by the arms, pulling them up with him. He gets to the top and shoves them to the side, grits out a “don’t move,” then jumps into the hallway, rolling forward and coming to a stop in a low crouch, a gun in each hand.

Natasha is on a man’s shoulders, thighs wrapped tight around his neck, their tenuous tower tipping over backwards with a jerk of her head. On the ground, two men in guard uniforms are down, blood just beginning to seep out around them, each with multiple arrows jutting from their bodies. One of the non-guards, maybe a scientist, is cowering against a wall, hands over his head. The other has picked up a guard’s gun and has it aimed down the hallway, where Barton and the final guard are engaged in hand-to-hand.

Bucky takes aim and fires, bullet ripping through the forearm of the civilian with the gun. Natasha springs up from her downed target, lunging forward to get her tasers on the civilian as he keels over.

“The last one!” she yells, and Bucky knows exactly what she means. He moves to his knees to make a steadier shot, then watches Barton and the final guard’s movement for three seconds, finding the pattern and—

He squeezes the trigger, and the final guard drops.

Barton stumbles to the side, leaning against the wall. He wipes his forehead, smearing dust from the vents in a thick, sweaty line, then a grin spreads across his face. “Hi guys, what are two fine people such as yourselves doing in a dirty place like this?”

Bucky stares, nonplussed.

“Not the _time,_ idiot,” Natasha seethes. “Get the scientists, Winter.”

Bucky shakes his head and returns to the stairwell, where both scientists are still huddled together in the corner he’d shoved them. He picks the younger woman up by the arm, and tilts his head to indicate for the other to follow. When they get into the hallway, he pushes them over to the other scientist. “Stay there,” he tells them. “Hawkeye, eyes on them.”

“You got it.” Barton pulls his bow up to train it on the three. His goofy grin of greeting slips into a cruel sneer, and damn, Bucky didn’t know Barton could make a face that mean.

“Distraction starting now,” Steve says. “Scarlet, begin.”

“Yes, Cap,” Wanda says, and Bucky wonders what it looks like on the other side of the complex, where Steve and Wanda are laying waste to the base’s fleet of vehicles. He can hear faint echoes in the distance, feel tremors through the floor. Presumably, everyone left in the complex will be sprinting in that direction.

Bucky walks over to Natasha, who is kneeling next to the civilian who had tried to shoot at Barton. Her eyes are focused in, the nails of one hand digging into the skin around his throat.

“Why were you here?” she asks, hand loosening enough for him to respond. 

The man coughs, eyes flicking back and forth between Natasha and Bucky. A sickening grin creeps its way onto his face, lips twisting grotesquely. He laughs once, more a cough than anything else, then mutters, “Hail Hydra.” His eyes glint, then his body begins to twitch as a black froth bubbles out of his mouth.

“What the hell,” Natasha whispers, releasing her grip around the man’s throat. “Hulk, Ironman, are you seeing this?”

“Looks like a poison, fast acting, maybe a pill or something he had in his mouth already,” Banner says. “Probably won’t affect you, but vacate the area anyway.”

“Upsie-daisy,” Barton says, motioning to the three scientists to stand. “You don’t want to be here much longer.” He begins to walk backwards towards the exit, monitoring the three captives, three arrows nocked which Bucky knows would somehow all hit their marks. “Widow, the last charge?”

Natasha nods, and puts the final black box a few feet away from the man’s trembling body. She flicks the switch on the side. “Countdown is on. Cap, Scarlet, you’ve got two minutes to get out of the radius.”

“On it,” Steve says. “Scarlet, to me, east side of the bay.”

“Hawkeye, I’ve got coverage from the rear,” Bucky tells Barton, who nods and turns to walk out facing forward, Natasha only a half step behind him. Barton stops at the door, peering out to do a visual sweep of the perimeter. He takes a moment, then brings his head back in to nod at his team.

“All clear, Window, Winter, Hawkeye heading back to tree coverage and transport,” he tells the rest of the crew, swinging the door wide open. Barton leads the way through the sunshine lit clearing, shoulders tight, bow up in front of him, three arrows still knocked and ready.

They make it back to the trees just in time to see Steve and Wanda come ripping around the bunker on a motorcycle, Wanda’s hair flowing out behind her as she clutches tight to Steve’s waist.

“Man, why didn’t I get the job with a motorcycle?” Barton asks as they zoom past on their way back to the Quinjet, Steve deftly navigating through the trees.

“Because you’d probably kill yourself trying to get on it,” Natasha mutters, then glares at one of the scientists who dared look at her.

“Fair,” Barton says.

They’re only a few feet into the forest when Bucky pauses—the two minutes should be just about up. He looks back, puts his hand on a tree. The metal looks out of place against the bark.

He counts down from ten.

When he gets to two, there’s a crack, then three near simultaneous explosions. Smoke billows from the doorway they’d just come through, an orange lick of fire flickering in the background. A booming echoes through the clearing, and Bucky sees part of the roof cave in. The wind picks up, carrying towards them the smells of fire, and to Bucky’s enhanced ears, the haunting sounds of human pain.

He hasn’t heard sounds like these since Afghanistan.

His metal fingers dig gouges into the bark and he startles back into focus. “Not a weapon,” he whispers. “It’s a choice.” He looks at the bunker one more time, just as the air duct Barton had entered through topples down.

“It’s a choice.”

_What the fuck has he chosen?_

* * *

For a solid five minutes, Clint feels successful for once. He made a quick decision, stopped some bad guys, didn’t get hurt too badly, and helped get all of his team out of the Hydra bunker before it exploded.

By the time they reach the treeline, however, he can read the anger in the harsh lines of Natasha’s body, and a thread of self-doubt is starting to creep in.

By the time they reach the Quinjet, Natasha hasn’t looked at him once, his anxiety is riding high in his throat, and he knows he’s fucked up.

As Natasha stalks forward, Clint hangs back to let her and Steve deal with the three captured scientists. He lets them pass before ducking inside and settling in the chair he’d been in before disembarking. There’s a twinge in his cheek and a blooming pain along his right side he’d been managing to ignore until they reached the security of the jet. He lifts his hand to his side, and presses his fingers against the pain for a moment; they withdraw stained red. He wipes it against his leg and shifts, taking mental stock of the rest of his body. The man he’d fought hand-to-hand in the hallway had definitely gotten in a few solid blows along his torso, and one to his face, but hey, if the worst of that fight was a bullet graze along his ribs, Clint will count that as pretty not bad.

In the rear of the Quinjet, Clint can see Natasha fitting the three scientists with blindfolds and noise cancelling headphones; Coulson must want to preserve as much secrecy as possible as they head back to New York. Steve is helping her, exchanging the ropes around their wrists with more secure handcuffs.

Bucky steps through the hatch, the shadow of a thunderstorm brewing on his face. He strides quickly over to the weapons locker, releasing the magazines from his guns before putting them and the knives he’d taken back in their respective positions. He swings his gear bag over his shoulders and drops it roughly at the base of the locker. Clint watches as Bucky pauses, metal hand gripping the locker door tightly. When he turns, Clint catches his eye, raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the seat next to him in invitation.

Bucky stares at him blankly for a moment, then his frown deepens, and he turns away, heading to the seat as far to the back as possible.

Clint deflates. Shit, he’d really fucked up if Bucky was mad at him too, hadn’t he? He sighs, and tilts his head back against the cool metal of the Quinjet wall behind him.

“That stunt you pulled was incredibly reckless,” Agent Coulson says, and Clint blinks his eyes open. He immediately looks away once he reads the disappointment there, then forces himself to make eye contact with his boss.

“Nowhere in any of our contingency plans were you supposed to get on level with any Hydra operatives. You performed outside the capacity of your role today,” Coulson continues, head cocked, examining Clint’s face as though doing so will give him an answer for how his sniper was such a colossal waste of space. “We’ll do a formal debrief of your decisions later, but you did not make the right one. You could have compromised the entirety of the mission.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Clint feels heat spread along his neck.

“Yes, well, people make mistakes,” Coulson says, and Clint can’t help but feel like he’s ten again, standing at the front of the class at his new school after moving in with his first foster family, being reprimanded for not paying attention when he just hadn’t been able to hear his teacher’s instructions.

Clint doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he nods.

“Agent May.” Coulson turns away, Clint no longer worth his time. “Let’s get going.”

The hatch to Clint’s left rises, sunlight from the outside cutting off inch by inch, until they’re left in a cool darkness that Clint’s eyes take a moment to get used to. He closes his eyes, opening them only as the jet starts to shake, then lifts off the ground. He switches off his hearing aids, unhooking them from over his ears. He pulls their case from his utility belt, and nestles them inside. The noise from the jet is not what he needs right now on top of the headache that’s threatening to overwhelm him.

As he looks up from putting his case away, Natasha is sitting across from him, glaring. She opens her mouth to speak, and he points at his ears with a shake of his head. She frowns further, then begins to sign.

[ _You can not get out of this by not listening to me.]_

 _[Not trying to avoid, noise too—]_ he tries to respond, but she’s already signing over him.

 _[That was the stupidest thing you have ever done.]_ Her movements are sharp, staccato. [ _You have always been quick to put yourself in harm’s way, but this was the worst. How could you?]_ She repeats her last question for emphasis, then folds her arms across her chest, the fingers of one hand tapping against her bicep like they’re aching to keep reprimanding him.

He studies the tense expression on her face, looking for clues, because he’s unsure again what response is desired from him here. _[I needed to do it. I had to keep you and Winter safe. It was okay, it was helpful.]_

“It was not okay,” Natasha says, signing along. Clint darts a glance at Wanda, who is watching their exchange with confused and concerned eyes. [ _It was not okay, it is never okay for you to do that.]_

He frowns, then hazards a question. _[Why?]_

Natasha makes several aborted movements, then closes her eyes, breathes in deep enough for Clint to see the swell of her chest, and exhales. She starts signing slowly, deliberately. _[It is not okay for you to put yourself in harm’s way, even for us. When are you going to understand that you matter, Clint?]_

[ _I don’t understand.]_ Clint shakes his head behind his raised right hand. _[I thought I was being helpful; I helped, I did the job. I know that matters.]_

[ _That is exactly the problem. I do not mean that what you did doesn’t matter, you matter. You. Not what you bring to the team. Not how you can be helpful. Just you. You the person. You matter, and you don’t realize that, so you throw yourself away, you treat yourself like trash, and it is_ ** _not_** _okay.]_

Clint looks at his best friend’s face, so much more open than it regularly is. There’s anger there, yes, but also fear, an unfamiliar expression for her. He sits back, uncomfortable. _[We have had this conversation before?]_ he asks, ending the statement with his eyebrows lowered to make it a question.

_[Yes, again and again. The difference is before it was about you and your jobs, you and the students, you and your self care. It is the same conversation, because you still cannot seem to wrap your mind around the idea that sometimes you have to put yourself first.]_

[ _That was different. What I did before was different. This was life or death.]_

 _[Yes, exactly]_ she signs emphatically in the space between them. _[It could have been_ ** _your_** _life or death, why don’t you understand that?]_

 _[I do]_ he signs, then pauses. He looks around the Quinjet, eyes stopping at each of his new teammates. Bruce is standing with Steve and Coulson, pouring over a Starkpad with enthusiastic gesticulations, presumably looking at footage from the body cameras. Wanda is sitting with her knees tight to her chest, a huddled figure in the bucket seat behind May. Her head is resting on her knees, face turned away from what she perceives as a private conversation, even if she can’t understand most of it. Bucky is half hidden in the shadows of the rear of the jet, metal hand slowly opening and closing at his side, lips pulled down into an unhappy frown. Clint’s gaze lands back on Natasha, and he nods. _[I do understand. But I think that helping out is more important, protecting the team just matters more.]_

Natasha’s eyes grow more furious for a moment, then like a fire extinguished her passion is gone and she shakes her head, expression growing sad, defeated. _[You are wrong.]_

He shrugs his shoulders as though to say, what-can-you-do-about-it, and offers a tentative smile. _[At least I only got a little bit shot.]_

Her shouted “What?” must be loud; Clint sees at least four heads spin in their direction.

[ _A little, a graze, it’s okay]_ he signs quickly, eyebrows raised.

Her hands are moving even as she strides over to him [ _Stop saying things are okay,_ ** _idiot._** _]_

He speaks to her when she’s next to him. “It’s no big deal, Nat, only one of them got lucky.” He lifts his arm to show her, and she ducks her head to inspect, eyes squinting as she assesses the damage. She tugs at the hemline of his shirt, and he reads her instructions as she means him to, rolling his shirt up and off his torso. She pulls his body forward a little before nodding and standing to get the med kit from where it’s stashed by the weapons locker.

She puts it down on the ground in front of him, crouches on the balls of her feet. She places both hands on his knees and makes sure he’s looking right at her before speaking clearly so he can read her lips. “You should have told us about this. Even you can understand that injuries need to be known about and dealt with, yes?”

“I mean I probably would’ve told you if I thought it was important,” Clint says.

If she says anything to that beyond her eye roll, Clint misses it as she moves his left arm up over her shoulder, where he rests it as she begins to spray a saline wash across the bullet wound. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, wait, should I tag this fic angst? 
> 
> *runs away, [ Oh no](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewao_NvfykE) TikTok sound trailing behind*


	7. Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey you know how progress isn’t linear?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, boyos.

Clint kicks his heels back against the side of bed idly as he waits for Natasha to finish up her check up with the doctors in the med bay. The fluorescent lights overhead are bright, and he aches just a little to get out of the room and to somewhere darker. The doctor who’d checked him out told him he didn’t have a concussion, but the anti-inflammatories they’d given him either weren’t strong enough for the headache that’d been building since they left the base, or else they hadn’t kicked in yet. He smooths his hand out over the bed beside him, hand crinkling up the paper that rests on top. They’ll need to switch it out once he leaves, his bloodied gear in a pile near the top, a stack of dirtied gauze next to it.

Natasha had done a perfectly fine job patching him up on the jet with the equipment available to her, but the doctors had made quick work getting rid of her temporary bandages once they’d arrived back at Stark Tower. The head doctor, a kindly Korean woman named Dr. Cho, had done Clint’s initial exam, gentle gloved fingers finding an honest-to-god cracked rib underneath the graze from the bullet. She’s motioned the other technicians over to deal with it after, sweeping away to check on the other team members.

The bandages are tight around Clint’s chest; he breathes in deep and exhales explosively, unused to the contraction around his lungs.Sitting on the bed next to his, Bucky jerks his head up at Clint’s exhale, eyes him over, then looks away. He hasn’t spoken to Clint since they arrived, and Clint wonders if he’s still as mad as Natasha was on the jet. Dr. Cho had stopped at his bed immediately after Clint’s, giving a cursory look over his prosthetic before checking his body quickly for injuries and telling him to come back in the morning for a full analysis of the arm. He’d nodded once, then hadn’t moved, staring at the white tile of the med bay floor.

“So, that was pretty stupid of me, huh?” Clint breaks the silence between them hesitantly.

Bucky’s eyes find his again. “What?”

“It was pretty dumb of me, right? The whole jumping out of the vents in the bunker? Natasha gave me an earful. Well, an eyeful, I didn’t have my aids in, and, you know.” Clint’s attempt at light-hearted humor fades as Bucky’s brow furrows lower and lower. It’s been months since Bucky’d looked at him with such animosity.

“Yeah. That was real fucking stupid,” Bucky says, and Clint feels his chest tighten in a way he’s sure is entirely unrelated to the bandages around it. He shouldn’t be surprised by Bucky’s response, though.

“I, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and looks down at his hands.

“You should be.” Bucky’s voice is low, and whether he means it to be or not, cutting. Clint flinches.

“I know, I could have jeopardized the mission. You and Nat probably didn’t even need me there anyways, could’ve handled it on your own,” Clint mumbles with a small shrug.

“It was fucking _stupid_ ,” Bucky says again, stronger this time. “It wasn’t worth it.”

“I know,” Clint says, and readies himself to leave where he’s clearly not wanted. How many times can different people tell him today that his actions during the mission were a waste of time? 

“Getting yourself injured like this, protecting me, us, that’s not worth it, you fucking idiot,” Bucky continues.

Clint pauses half off the medical bed, and looks at Bucky’s face. There’s anger there, a near all-encompassing rage, with just a tiny bit of room for what looks like disappointment. He wonders if Bucky’s ‘ _not worth it_ ’ is the same as Natasha’s.

“What do you mean, it’s not worth it? It is worth it, that’s my job. I’m here, I mean, I was there to protect you and Nat, get you guys out, the data, the scientists, all of that. That’s what I was there for,” Clint tries to offer reasonably, even as he feels his feelings panicking their way out of his mouth.

“That’s not the point, you shouldn’t.” Bucky struggles for words, both hands clenching the sheet of paper across his bed on either side of him tightly. “I’m not worth that. It was so stupid for you to put yourself in harm’s way—for you to get _shot_ —for me. I would’ve been fine, I could’ve protected Natasha, too, you didn’t need to do that.”

“But I did, and it was worth it,” Clint says, trying to avoid latching on to the voice in the back of his head that’s repeating a chorus of _useless, useless, useless._ “You’re worth it, Bucky. I’d do it again.”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment, then there’s a tearing sound as his metal fingers rip through the cushion on the top of the bed. He lets out a short, bitter bark of a laugh, and holds up the foam in his hand. “Do you see this? You think this, this right here, is worth protecting? Is worth getting hurt for?” He doesn’t let Clint answer. “It’s not. This is a weapon, this is a tool. And you shouldn’t sacrifice yourself for that.”

His grip loosens, and the foam floats to the floor. They watch it fall together, and Clint tries to gather his thoughts.

“You’re not a weapon, Bucky, and of course I’m going to do whatever I can to help you out. That’s—that’s what I do. I care, and I help, and Nat yells at me for it, but I kind of sacrifice myself a lot. And I’ll do it for you, too,” he tries, reaching for a vulnerability that he just can’t quite access in the light of Bucky’s scowl. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, you fucking shouldn’t. I don’t want your sacrifice. I don’t want your help, your care, none of it. I don’t des—I don’t want it,” Bucky growls, and stands abruptly. He looks like he’s about to say something, but no words emerge, and he strides out of the med bay, muttering something to Steve as he leaves that Clint’s aids don’t pick up.

Clint swallows and feels the prickle of tears at the back of his eyes. He blinks to dispel them, and glances around the med bay. Steve is standing protectively near Wanda, arms crossed as the doctors check her vitals and the few surface scratches she’d managed to pick up while escaping from the base through the woods, stray branches and twigs whipping across her arms and legs. Steve’s got control of the situation, providing care and support. Natasha is finishing up with the doctors, nodding brusquely at their instructions, clearly ready to be on the move and on to the next thing. Clint sees her motion Bruce over, gesturing for the tablet in his hands. She’s got control of her situation, no need for Clint to check in on her like she had on him.

The tightness in his chest that began when Bucky first spoke to him is still there, and it constricts even further. There’s really not a reason for him to be here any longer.

He eases himself off of the bed, winces a little and heads towards the elevator. JARVIS gives him a quick, “Good evening, Mr. Barton, to the ground floor, or to the Avengers floor?” when he steps inside. 

He ponders for a moment, then decides that maybe it’s better if he gets all the way back to Brooklyn tonight. He’d been planning on staying in one of the guest rooms on the Avengers floor, but can’t quite fathom having to be told how much of a screw-up he is by anyone else if he happens to run into someone.

“Ground floor, please.”

“As you wish, sir.” JARVIS is as placid as ever, and the elevator begins to move.

He texts Natasha once he’s outside.

‘ _heading to the apartment, don’t want to be at tower tonight’_

Her reply comes through a moment later.

‘ _I’m going to stay here, walking through footage with science people.’_

He pockets his phone as he meanders his way to the nearest subway station. It’s not until he’s pushed through the till and is in the crowded train car, arm above him on a handle, the weight of his body straining his ribs, that he thinks to check his phone again. Natasha had sent a second text only seconds after her first.

_‘Are you going to be okay alone?’_

The chuckle that comes from his throat feels halfway to a sob.

_‘Yeah, I’ll be okay. Won’t be alone, I’ll pick up Lucky from Simone.’_

Of course, it’s when he’s back in the apartment, sitting with his back to the door, knees drawn close, shaking, that he remembers that Kate from the youth center had offered to take Lucky for the week. He’d been happy to hear it when she’d asked if she could pet sit for the first time a couple years ago, then relieved when she’d overheard Clint complaining to Claire about not having enough time to give Lucky the attention he deserved, telling Clint that her parents would let her take care of Lucky for an extended time as a trial run for getting her own dog, but now? Now Clint really, really just wishes Lucky was there for him to hug.

There’s no judgement free, lolling tongue, bright-eyed bundle of joy covering Clint with kisses. There’s no-one for him to love and dote on, for him to walk and feed and take care of. There’s no-one who will lay next to him, crowded in his space, letting him just be, accepting him as he is. There’s no-one in the apartment except for Clint and his mind.

And that’s a dangerous combination.

* * *

“We’re not going to follow a specific protocol for tonight. My only expectations are this: everyone will respond to every question, as much or as little as you want. We won’t go in any particular order, so whenever you feel like it, feel free to speak up.”

They’re back in the common room on the Avengers’ floor the next afternoon, gathered in a loose circle around the room. Barton and Natasha are seated together on the couch, Barton sprawled across it with a loose leg thrown up in Natasha’s lap. Wanda is curled up in an armchair, braiding and re-braiding her hair repetitively. Steve is seated near Banner, having come in together earlier, straight from the SHIELD debrief. Bucky is standing still, not quite ready to sit down. He’d taken some time to get there after the debrief, needing the space and break from human interaction.

SHIELD’s debrief had been uncomfortable for him, listening to Agent Coulson walk step-by-step through their infiltration, Bucky and Natasha’s smooth takedowns of six guards, the firefight at the end with Barton, the chilling demise of the man with what they’ve confirmed as a cyanide pill, the following explosion, all a little much for him. It felt cold, systematic, like a op report from the Army that smoothed over too much and ignored the details, the realities of what it felt like to be there in the moment.

It had been weird to watch Steve nod along, stepping into an explanatory role to outline how the mission had gone according to plan as well as how and why it hadn’t. Steve was slipping naturally into that role, just like he probably would have in the Army if he hadn’t become so vocal with his superiors, because this time he was supported by a much more rigorous training program and overseeing agents who actually cared about doing the right thing. There was a dissonance in watching him lay out the facts of the mission so logically, so precise, and it had Bucky’s hackles up.

So, when the debrief had ended, he’d made his way down to the training room and spent the next 45 minutes trying to get all of his congested emotions under control via shadowboxing, which provided him with an excess of sweat, a fair amount of energy expenditure, and the total numbing effect of focusing on his footwork and body movement.

He felt a little more under control, now.

“We’ll start with a check-in. I want you to reflect on how you feel and come up with two words—just two—that you think best represent how you’re feeling today.” Sam looks at each of them in turn.

“Just two words?” Steve questions. “Not like a phrase or anything?”

“Try your best for just those two words,” Sam says with a gentle smile. “By narrowing this down to such a small amount, you’ll really be forced to think about which two are fitting. I know you’re all experiencing a lot right now, but I want you to try and identify your predominant emotions. Identifying just two feelings will also help you explore why you’re feeling this way, what’s causing those things to weigh most heavily on your mind.”

He lets them think for a moment, then adds, “And you don’t need to explain your emotions to everyone, not yet. Just focus on deciding on which two words.”

Bucky feels the absurd need to laugh, despite how altogetherunfunny this situation is. It was less than half an hour ago he’d been down at the gym, intentionally trying to wrangle his emotions into something manageable, something solid and concrete. Sam, as always, seems to be omniscient. He looks down at his hands and finds that he’s clenching them again. Well, how the fuck is he supposed to put his feelings about his prosthetic into a single sentence, let alone two words?

He spreads out his fingers, studies them in the low lights of the room. They shine back at him, terribly bright for all the darkness they’d helped him bring to the world at the bunker.

Guilt, maybe, shame. It had been terrible how effective he’d been yesterday. Sounds had drifted in and out of his mind all night, small ones: the crunch of bones, the thud of his prosthetic hitting flesh, the rasp of metal along the railings up the stairs in the lab, the pained gasp as his hand had clenched too tightly around the arm of the older scientist. Guilt chased him when he closed his eyes, too: what it looked like when the guards fell down, the sight of blood seeping from bodies, wide-eyed panic of the young, dark-haired scientist, the bandages wrapped tight around Barton’s chest.And worse of all, maybe, was that he could feel them, the echoes of all his actions, like tremors up and down the plates of his prosthetic.

He hadn’t been lying to Barton when he’d told him he was a weapon, but he knows he’s a conscious one, an active participant. He’s choosing to be used like this. He’s choosing to kill—and that, well, that makes him feel—

“Uncomfortable,” Bucky says, still watching the plates that make up his fingers shift and interlock. “Uncomfortable and guilty.”

“Thanks for starting us off, Bucky,” Sam says, and Bucky can tell he’s looking at him, probably trying to make eye contact. Sam gives the tiniest of sighs, audible probably only to those with enhanced hearing, before reminding everyone that, “There’s no specific order, so whoever wants to go next can.”

Steve is the next to speak, and neither of his words are particularly surprising to Bucky. “I feel proud…and disappointed,” he says, sneaking a glance at Barton that isn’t quite as sneaky as he thinks, if Barton’s shoulders hunching in on themselves are anything to go by. Steve should be proud, because for all the discomfort it gives Bucky to see him in a leadership role, he’s excelling. As for disappointment, yeah, he’s probably kicking himself for not figuring out a way to keep Barton from getting hurt, despite hours of tactical analysis and planning.

Banner and Natasha go to speak next at the same time, and Natasha yields the floor to him with a wave of her palm.

“Satisfied, I guess, and relieved, you know, about not needing to become the big guy,” Banner says, then gets a guilty look on his face. “Sorry, that wasn’t just two words.”

“You’re good,” Sam assures him with a smile, then nods at Natasha.

“Validated,” she says, rubbing Barton’s knee across her lap absently. “And concerned.”

Bucky sees Wanda watching Barton, clearly trying to avoid speaking over him. Barton’s face is drawn, and Wanda frowns before looking at the rest of them. “I feel nervous, but useful.”

Barton’s flinch is visible from across the room.

“Guilty, and um, ha, useless,” he says, and swings his leg off of Natasha’s lap, jostling her arms. Bucky frowns; last night in the med bay, when Bucky was trapped in his head, wallowing in guilt, hadn’t Barton been saying something about being useful to the team?

“Thank you, folks, I appreciate your honesty and bravery,” Sam says, and it kills Bucky just a little bit at how genuine he sounds. “The next question will be a little more broad, and you can say as much as you want, or as little. We’ll go around the room in clockwise order, just so you don’t feel the anxiety of having to choose when to go or worrying about who goes next.” He must’ve seen Wanda’s concerns, too.

“What we’re going to do next is take those emotions you just laid out for us and explain how you feel about your actions from the mission yesterday. How do you feel about the decisions you made? About how your actions affected others? How do your actions from yesterday make you feel about yourself? I know that’s a lot, so I want to give you some time to process and think about how you want to respond. Also, JARVIS, could you put those questions up?”

“Of course, Mr. Wilson,” JARVIS says, and Sam’s three questions bloom into existence, projected over the television.

“Figured that’d be easier for us,” Sam says. “Remember, you can write down your thoughts if you want, and you’re only responsible for sharing as much as you’re comfortable with. Let’s take five or so minutes to think. I’ll check in to see if you need longer.” 

As Sam finishes his instructions, Bucky uses the time to find a place to sit, electing to take an empty recliner near Wanda, who is the closest to Sam’s left. It’s a strategic choice, of course, placing him near the end of the circle, but not the last person to speak. On his trip over, he picks up a pen and paper from in front of Sam. He’s found he’s become grateful for the opportunity to write down his thoughts before sharing, choosing his words ahead of time; he knows he’ll always say what he means to, this way.

Sam’s questions sit heavy over the television, for all they glow in soft orange light.

How does Bucky feel about his actions and how they affected others? How does he feel about himself? Again, he finds himself biting down a bark of laughter. He leans over against the armrest of the recliner, spreads the paper as flat as he can. It’s so much easier to write on unstable surfaces now with a second hand to keep the paper steady.

_I feel like I am a weapon, a tool used by SHIELD. I also know that I am the one who ultimately makes these decisions, and I can’t get past that I’m choosing to kill people with this fucking insane ass prosthetic. I left the Army hating myself for being a tool of systematic oppression and unjust actions, for causing pain and suffering by just doing my job, but I never actually killed any civilians in the Army. Brock pulled the trigger that led to me losing my arm and my fucking sanity, but I knew it could have just as easily been me. And now here I am literally killing people again, helping to set charges that killed who knows how many people? Even fucking neo-nazis who are trying to take over the world, what the fuck am I doing? But also, I think it’s the right thing? Which also makes me feel like shit, in a different way? I don’t know._

He pauses in his writing, words almost illegible, pen having poked through the paper a few times. The arm of a recliner is not conducive to writing quickly or clearly. He shakes his wrist out to rest it, glancing around the room. Steve has opted to write as well, grabbing a book off a nearby shelf and going absolutely to town. He flips his first sheet of paper over onto its back to continue as Bucky watches. Bucky’s gaze moves on to Barton, who’s leaning back on the couch, head tilted up, eyes closed. Barton, who for whatever reason, was feeling guilty and useless, and was clearly having a shitty time.

_I also feel guilty about Barton getting injured yesterday trying to protect me and Natasha. I hate that anyone would get hurt for the things that I did, for my sake, but it feels even worse that it’s someone like Clint. The guy is too good, too caring—he works at a fucking youth center and treats Wanda like a little sister, JFC. Everyone likes him. He cares about me, and he shouldn’t. That only opens him up to getting hurt further._

He studies Barton a little more. He hasn’t moved, but Bucky can see his mouth moving as though he’s talking to himself.

_I didn’t like seeing him hurt. maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at him in the med bay? But the shame I felt about myself and about him was too much, maybe? I should apologize. Fuck, I like the guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be yelled at. I don’t want to yell at him._

He glances at Sam’s questions again, focusing on the third one.

 _My actions yesterday hurt people around me, I think. Literally, obviously, all of the Hydra fucks, but also I got so in my head I lashed out? At Clint, and at Steve, and maybe at myself in the gym today?_ He had felt the strain of pulled muscles after his shadowboxing, even though they’d knitted together quick enough.

“Okay, that’s five….based on how many of you are still writing, I’ll give you two more minutes,” Sam says.

Bucky looks down at his scribbled mess, parsing out the sentences that make sense, rephrasing the ones that don’t until he’s got something that he may not totally hate saying out loud. Some of it, though, he maybe needs to save for Barton alone to hear.

Sam’s voice breaks the silence a few moments later. “Who’d like to start us off?”

“I will go,” Wanda says, and Bucky looks at her in surprise, an expression he sees mirrored in Sam’s eyes, before it’s quickly replaced by a pleased, proud look.

“Great, thanks Wanda.” Sam points around the circle, skipping over himself. “Clockwise, that puts Steve next, then Bruce, Natasha, Clint, and finally Bucky. Now, knowing the order of who speaks will take some of the anxiety away, but please also try to give your attention to whoever’s speaking, rather than focus on what you’re going to say.”

There’s a ripple of nodded heads, then Sam raises his eyebrows at Wanda, who drops her braid and leans forward to begin. “I feel happy to be useful to this team. Yesterday on the mission, I knew what to do, and how to do it, and I think I did a good job. I am glad I was with Steve; I am glad that what I did helped protect everyone, keep you all safe.” She smiles, a timid, beautiful thing, and continues. “But I am still nervous, because I do not know, it is like you say, maybe too much of a good thing? Maybe it is not…logical, but I fear that I cannot always be successful, like this, so I worry that next time I will not be, and people will get hurt.”

By this point, she’s gathered her braid back in her hands and is twisting the end around two fingers. “Yesterday I felt very…strong, very powerful, and that is scary, to me.” She jumps as Steve places a comforting hand on the edge of her recliner, then smiles at him. “I think, in my brain, that I know that you all will help me, and make sure I do not hurt you, but fear is not always so logical, yes? Also,” she pauses, biting her lips, “also, while I am proud and happy and scared, I also wish that my brother was here to see this. I think he would be proud and happy with me, and everything was always less scary when he was here.” She takes Steve’s hand, which he’d turned over in offering, and squeezes it once before settling her hands back in her lap.

Steve looks stymied for a moment, thrown off course by Wanda’s vulnerability. Bucky looks at his face, considering. What would Steve be like if someone like a brother died? Steve’s an only child, but Bucky guesses that he’s the closest Steve’s got to a sibling. Maybe that was why he’d been hit so hard when Bucky had lost his arm, spending weeks in the hospital in Kabul, away from the rest of the company. That’d probably been the longest they’d been separated since, well, ever. Man, what would _Bucky_ do if Steve was killed? His brain begins to lock onto that, but before it can get too far, Steve starts to speak.

“I said earlier that I felt proud and disappointed. I think that’s pretty accurate, and maybe how I feel a lot of the time?” He looks down at his paper to check his words before continuing. “I felt, and feel proud, because things went pretty well, all things considered. I worked really hard for weeks leading up to this mission, and I think that hard work paid off. Of course, things didn’t go entirely to plan, which is why I’m disappointed.”

Bucky slants his eyes over at Barton at this point and sees his eyes shutter closed.

“Like Wanda, I know logically that I can’t plan for every contingency, and that missions and operations are always going to throw us curveballs, but I hate knowing that maybe I could’ve known about those extra guards. Maybe I could’ve prevented things from going awry, stopped my team from getting hurt. So I’m disappointed about that, and maybe a little guilty, too.”

There’s confusion on Barton’s face, now, and Steve catches his eye, holding it for a moment, before continuing. “I feel disappointed because my actions hurt others. Hurt Clint, even possibly the mission.” He checks the back side of his paper. “Oh, I also feel like I’m more responsible than ever before because I have this team under me, and while that’s hard, I’m also grateful because it’s better than blindly following orders.” He nods at Banner.

“Like I started to say earlier,” Banner says with a sheepish grin, “I’m satisfied that I was able to help out the team, even though I didn’t really do much from the jet.”

Bucky sees Natasha’s incredulous expression a moment before she clears it and knows exactly what she’s feeling; they would’ve been lost in the lab without his and Stark’s guidance.

“I think the information and data that Bucky and Natasha got out will be useful, and I’m excited to continue to help process it, and figure out how we’ll be able to use it, hopefully figure out some of what’s affecting all of us,” he says, animated for a second, then visibly shrinking as he reads the room. “But sorry, that’s not really about yesterday, or myself? So also, I guess, I’m feeling grateful that I didn’t have to turn into the Hulk. I’m scared for the mission when I finally do. And I know, Sam, you said that I need to work on accepting him, but, it’s hard.”

Sam nods and interrupts the circle. “No need to apologize, Bruce, not for what you’re feeling. We won’t begrudge you for feeling positive things, or excitement, let alone begrudge you for not accepting all parts of yourself. Right, guys?”

Bucky feels himself nodding along with everyone else. He’d be a real hypocrite if he tried to say Banner needed to accept his monstrous alter-ego when Bucky can hardly accept his own damn arm half the time.

“Okay, sorry about interrupting. Anything else, Bruce, or are we good for Natasha to begin?”

Banner smiles uncomfortably and shakes his head. 

Natasha leans forward on her forearms, and after a quick glance at Barton to her left, begins to speak in a calm, steady voice. “I think, like many of you, when we started training with SHIELD several months ago, and even throughout the smaller missions we’ve been on, I was unsure if this was what I should be doing. I know that it doesn’t always seem like it, but I doubt myself and my actions like everyone else.” She offers a wry smile, and shrugs. “But that’s just how I am. Showing emotions, doubt, and low self esteem are things I’ve spent a long time training myself out of. I never wanted to be perceived as weak, not as a child in a Russian family, not as an attractive woman in college, definitely not on the courtroom floor. So it’s been…a struggle, if you will, trying to be honest about my emotions with you all.” She looks down as Barton lays a hand on her knee, and her lips quirk upwards.

“All of this to say, I have felt a lot of doubt about SHIELD, and my place in it, but not yesterday.” She makes eye contact with Bucky, and holds it as she continues. “Yesterday I felt like I was doing the right thing, with the right people. As though the things I had done before that I’m not proud of…not that they were washed away, per say, because those stains will always remain, but as though I was making a step in the right direction.”

Bucky is relieved when she shifts her gaze away, feeling himself unfreeze as though he had been pinned by her discerning eyes. She lays her hand over Barton’s, slips her thumb around his pinky. “I know this is just one step, and that there are still reasons to be cautious, to be concerned. I didn’t like a lot of myself before I came to therapy, and as I move forward with SHIELD, I still need to figure out how to stay true to my values, once I figure out what I want those to be.”

Across the circle, Steve has shifted forward, listening intently. “I also know that my comfort and validation with the mission from yesterday isn’t shared by everyone,” Natasha continues softly, a shadow in her eyes. “So I feel concern for my teammates, who deserve, just as I do, to feel like they belong and that they are doing the right thing.” She looks beside her at Barton, who doesn’t appear to see her, staring ahead at the ground. She nudges him with her knee. “Now you, _durak_.”

Barton startles, and Bucky wonders how much of Natasha’s words he heard and how he processed them. Not much, and not well, by the expression on his face. Barton frowns, glancing around the room. “I, um, how I felt about my actions yesterday, and how they, um, affected everyone, and myself,” he starts with a stutter, eyes flicking to the questions still projected on the wall above the television. “I don’t know how to start,” he says, mouth opening and closing several times before he shakes his head reflexively.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Sam says. “Take as much time as you need, we’re not going to judge you for it.”

Barton lets out a tiny scoff, mouth twisting. He brings his hands to his face, rubs his eyes with the back of his palms once, then blinks, looking at the ceiling. “Okay, well, I hated it, everything, yesterday, I was such a failu—god, I…” he trails off, and Bucky sees Steve look as though he’s about to say something, before Barton continues in a distressed rush. “I don’t even know why you keep me here, I shouldn’t be here, I let all of you down, and I’m sorry, and I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t be here right now, I’m sorry.”

He stands abruptly, dislodging Natasha’s hand from on top of his as he does so. He brings his hands to his hair, pulling at the short strands at the back of his neck, and keeps his gaze trained on the ground. Words tumble out of him, repetitive and repenting. “I can’t be here right now, I’m sorry, Sam, everyone, I’m sorry.”

“Clint, wait—” Natasha and Sam say at the same time, but Barton just shakes his head again, striding towards the elevator.

“I thought I could today, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” His voice cracks as he moves away, steps solid, even as his words are not.

Natasha looks at Sam for guidance, and he puts his hand up to prevent her movement, rising from his seat to follow after Barton.

The elevator is probably close enough for Bucky to hear their conversation if he tries, but he decides to err on the side of privacy, intentionally trying to not listen in. He sees Steve angle his head in that direction, and snaps to get his attention, shaking his head once. Steve sits back, looking embarrassed.

Next to Bucky, Wanda looks seconds away from bursting into tears, and she murmurs in a low voice Bucky isn’t sure she means to say aloud. “He hurts, so much.” Bucky is confused for a moment at the depth of the pain her voice carries before remembering one of Wanda’s less flashy enhancements—sensing and manipulating emotions. He feels a flash of pity; these therapy sessions must be terrible for her.

Across the circle, Bruce looks uncomfortable and Natasha looks fit to either rip someone’s arms off or rescue a kitten from a tree. And Bucky, well, all the guilt he’s felt since yesterday feels magnified. Existential crises are one thing, but when the object of part of your shame breaks down in front of you? That’s a whole different level of guilt. Whatever he said yesterday that contributed to Barton feeling this way, he wishes he could take it back, or at least have had the emotional capacity to realize the extent of his harm and apologize earlier today.

There’s a ding from the elevator, and a few seconds later, Sam walks back into the common room.

“Clint needs some space right now, and that’s okay. I know you guys are probably worried, so know that I’ll be checking in on him later tonight and tomorrow. If you want, you could text him tonight to let him know you’re here for him, but now is not the time to ask him to answer any of your questions, or to try and fix things for him; that’s not what he needs,” Sam says, sitting down and clasping his hands together. “You’ve all been there before, I’m sure, where everyone tries to solve all your problems before you’re ready to hear a solution, when all you want is for someone to listen. Right now, Clint’s not ready for a whole group of people to listen, and that’s okay.”

Bucky thinks of all the times in his recovery after losing his arm that Steve had tried to jump in and tell him that things would get better, or force him to do things he didn’t want to, or offer him solutions to problems he didn’t feel like facing, when all he wanted was for Steve to nod along and say, “Damn, that really sucks.” So he nods and acquiesces as Sam looks around the room until they all agree.

If Sam thinks it’s best, he’ll give Barton time. 

* * *

Clint ambles through the streets of Bed-Stuy, the mid-April air still cool enough at night to make him regret not stopping back at the apartment for a jacket after leaving therapy. Therapy; Jesus, what a shitshow. He scrubs a hand across his face, covering his eyes just in time to run into a fire hydrant, his shin twinging painfully as he lets out a barrage of colorful curses.

He resumes walking, watching the world around him. His phone buzzes once in his pocket: probably another text from Natasha. He had texted her back earlier when she reached out to let her know he was okay, because god he wasn’t _that_ much of a dick, but he doesn’t really feel like having a conversation right now.

Across the street, three large bodied men in garish orange and purple tracksuits shuffle through a seedy apartment door, the last man sending shifty eyes around the street before pulling the door closed behind them. That’s something they should look into, probably, but Clint doesn’t exactly have the energy to deal with that right now. He huffs. Maybe he shouldn’t deal with that kind of thing. He’ll pass it on to Natasha or something, maybe report it to the local police, even though he’s got just as much dislike for them as any white ally does on behalf of his Bed-Stuy POC neighbors, recipients of rampant racially motivated police discrimination. Anything’s better than Clint trying to deal with it, though.

There’s a siren in the distance and Clint can hear raucous noise spilling out from apartments, shops, and restaurants all around him. He looks up at the sky, squinting. Is it a weekend, or is life always so loud at night? He takes one hearing aid out for a moment, then the other, cradling them in his hand as he continues to walk.

Everything is muffled, muted, a fuzzy filter intercepting and misinterpreting everything around him. It matches how the rest of his head feels right now.

Distracted, he doesn’t notice before stepping in a puddle, the subsequent splash making him jump, and he almost drops his aids. He contemplates doing so just because anyways before hooking them back over his ears with a wry smirk. Natasha would smack him if he ruined another pair because of something stupid like dropping them in a goddamn puddle. She’d eviscerate him if he did it intentionally. He blinks quickly as everything zooms back into full volume.

His phone begins to buzz again, this time for longer, continual vibrations, so he knows it’s a phone call. He checks the caller ID and sees _Sam Wilson_ flashing on the screen. He’d told Clint to expect his call when he left the tower, and Sam was nothing if not a man of his word. Clint shakes his head as he picks up, embarrassed to be a burden.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Clint. Thanks for answering. Sorry it took me a bit, we had to wrap up the session and I figured it’d be better if I called you once I got home myself,” Sam says, and Clint immediately hates that he’s beginning with an apology.

“No, it’s fine, no need to apologize,” he says. It’s not like Sam is getting paid to make after-hours phone calls after all. “Sorry I left like that, I shouldn’t have.”

“Clint, you’re fine,” Sam says firmly. “Like I told you at the elevator, it’s okay. You’re going through a lot right now, and everyone processes things differently. What you needed was to not be there with everyone, and that’s _okay_. How are you feeling now?”

Clint chuckles. He can’t help it. “I…not great, if I’m being honest. Not better, not worse, I don’t know.”

“You’re right, that’s not the best question,” Sam says. “My bad. How about this, instead. Can you tell me where you are? What you’re doing?”

Clint glances around at the streetlamp lit road. “Um…somewhere in Bed-Stuy. Not far from our apartment, coupla blocks. I’m just walking, might go somewhere, I don’t know.”

“Okay, good,” Sam responds. “Where do you think you might go? Besides walking, what are you thinking about doing?”

Clint feels a little like Sam’s pressing for something specific, so he frowns at the phone before answering. “I’m not sure. I might go to a bar nearby, something like that. I don’t feel like getting drunk exactly, but I kinda want to get out of my head.”

“That’s fair. Is that why you don’t want to just go home?”

“Yeah.” That, and that Natasha will probably be at home, and he has no desire to face her. “I think I want to be around people, but not people who know me.”

Sam hums. “Makes sense to me. How are you going to keep yourself safe?”

“I hadn’t really thought of that,” Clint admits. “I’ll…go somewhere that I’ve been before? I know this area pretty well, I know a couple places that are open all night where the bartenders are decent at keeping things chill.”

He imagines Sam nodding on the other end of the phone. “And are you planning on staying there all night? If you don’t go home, is there somewhere else you can go to sleep instead?”

“I was thinking about that, yeah. But I guess I could maybe go to the center if I feel like it,” Clint answers. They’ve got a couple rooms kept furnished for kids that run into trouble at home. Nothing permanent, but just for a night or two before helping them make steps towards either returning home or getting closer to more stable safety. Clint’ll probably just stay at the bar all night, though, sneak back in once he knows Nat’s left for work. She still goes into the law office a couple times a week to work on her ongoing cases as she slowly eases her way away from the profession. She’d told Clint she had been laying a trail for herself, weaving a tale of a whirlwind romance, writing her own story and reasons for leaving the firm. 

“Glad you have a back-up plan, Clint,” Sam says. “Will you consider letting someone know where you’re planning on being? It doesn’t have to be me.”

His phone buzzes up against his ear. “Yeah, hold on a sec.”

_'Just checking in on you.'_

He types out a quick reply, then jostles his phone back between his ear and shoulder. “That was Nat, I told her the bar I’m planning on going to.”

“Great. Thank you for doing that,” Sam says, then his voice shifts. “Alright, so I know you’re probably still in pretty negative headspace right now, and first, again, that’s both okay and expected. However, I want to tell you what’s next, so that if you get to the point tonight where you can start to think about things, you’ll have the framework to do so. Sound good?”

“I guess,” Clint tentatively accepts. Sam’s the expert, not him.

“Good. So, when you left tonight you were feeling really low. You said that you felt like you had let people down?” Sam pauses for Clint’s noncommittal grunt. “Now, from what I’ve been told of the mission, and listening to everyone else’s perspectives from an unbiased viewpoint, I can tell you that I don’t think you let everyone down as much as you think you did. But, I know you might have trouble believing me when I say that, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint snorts. Sam may be good at reading people, but he hadn’t seen Coulson’s disappointment, felt Nat’s displeasure, or been on the receiving end of Bucky’s disgust.

“That’s okay,” Sam says. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe what people tell us, especially when it’s good things, double especially when we don’t believe it about ourselves. It seems to me like you’re feeling a little lost, a little out of touch with the things that keep you grounded. Would you say that’s true?”

“I guess?”

“Okay, thank you for telling me. Like I said, I know it’s going to be hard to do so tonight, but what I want you to try and do is think of the last time where you felt your best. Where you felt like you liked who you were and what you were doing. The last time you really felt confident, if you will. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Clint says.

“Alright. So I want you to think about that place, or that time, and try to put yourself back there. Literally, if you can—like go to the place you last felt that way. Then, once you’re there, either mentally or physically, try to think about the reasons you felt like that. Okay?”

“Okay, I guess,” Clint says, eyes scanning the road ahead of him. He’ll need to take the next turn to get to the bar he’s planning on squatting at for the next several hours.

Sam chuckles. “It’s a lot, I know. I’ll text you all of this when I hang up, then I’ll call back tomorrow afternoon to check in, okay?”

Clint feels a vague sense of relief wash over him. “Good, cause I was not about to remember all that. Especially if I drink more than a few. Which I’m not planning on doing,” he hastily adds.

“You’re fine, Clint,” Sam says warmly. “Your priorities for tonight are to do what you need to do, as long as you stay safe, okay?”

“Got it,” Clint confirms.

“Good. Do you mind if I email Agent Coulson to let him know that you won’t be in tomorrow?”

“That’d be great, actually,” Clint says. “Could you maybe not tell him that I had a fucking meltdown though?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Sam chides gently. “Besides, I work for you first, not him. Even though I’m technically on SHIELD’s payroll now, you’re my priority. I won’t send him anything more than he needs to know, nothing that you would feel uncomfortable sharing outside of group. Our norm of confidentiality still applies.”

“Thanks, then,” Clint says. He probably should’ve known better than to doubt Sam’s intentions. “I’m at the bar now. I’ll…talk to you tomorrow?”

“You will. And expect my text in a few minutes, too,” Sam answers. “Be safe.”

“I will,” Clint says, and snaps his phone closed. Luke’s sign looms above him, bright neon letters glaring, swell of anonymous noise comforting. He steps inside, finds a seat at the bar, and flags down the bartender.

* * *

Bucky walks into the kitchen and sits down heavily at the table. Steve’s got his back to him, standing at the sink, suds up to his elbows. Bucky looks down at his phone, then back at Steve.

“Are you taking dishes _out_ of the dishwasher, Steve?”

They’d just run it before leaving for SHIELD this morning.

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, making it clear he doesn’t want questions about it as he lifts another clean dish to put it back in the soapy water.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, but he gets it. Steve’s feeling thrown off by Barton’s actions in therapy, and is probably fixating on everything he’d done to cause it. What a punk.

“Barton texted me back,” he says instead. “He told me he’s going to a place called Luke’s, that he’ll be fine and,” he checks the message again, “to not come, he doesn’t need me right now.”

Steve picks up another rinsed dish from the dishwasher and dips it into the soapy water in front of him. “That’s kind of weird. I didn’t realize you guys were on that level.”

“Me neither,” Bucky says, staring at the message. He tentatively types back, ‘ _Just wanted to check in on you, what’s Luke’s?’_ “I mean, we’ve been getting closer. Trained a couple times together at the range. He, uh, he’s been helping me deal with this whole prosthetic thing.”

Bucky winces when he sees Steve still, both hands wrist deep in the water. “He’s been helping you deal with it?”

His tone is _very_ carefully neutral.

“Yeah. I mean. We talk about it. Have talked about it. Before I decided to get it we ran into each other one day while I was waiting for you to finish up some debrief, had a long talk,” Bucky says. “He’s been helpful. It’s nice.”

“It’s nice,” Steve repeats slowly. He grabs the hand towel by the side of the sink and wipes his hands off, then turns to face Bucky, leaning back against the counter. “What do you mean, it’s nice?”

“I think he gets it,” Bucky says, resolutely not breaking eye contact. “Or me. He’s not too pushy, he respects what I say. He’s easy to talk to, and I don’t get caught in my head so much when he’s around.”

Steve looks at him critically, and Bucky fights the urge to avoid his gaze. “I have heard you guys mess around a lot. I guess I’ve been a little caught up in everything I’m doing at SHIELD to really pay attention. So, you reaching out to him tonight—what, are you trying to repay a favor? He’s been there for you, you want to be there for him?”

Bucky shifts in the plastic seat and Steve’s eyebrows raise.

“Oh, okay,” he says, then searches Bucky’s eyes a little more. “You want to help him out, not just because you feel like you owe him. But because you…care about him?”

When you’ve been best friends with someone since the elementary school playground, it’s hard to hide your thoughts, though Bucky’s done his damnedest to try in the time since his accident. He guesses being into a person looks the same on him as it did 10 years ago, though.

He shrugs, no sense in denying it. “Yeah. And I think I hurt him yesterday. Don’t think you noticed, cause you were busy, but I kind of yelled at him for getting hurt on the mission.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “If you yelled at him, it was out of concern, right?”

“Definitely,” Bucky says adamantly, “but I don’t think he interpreted it like that. You heard him in group tonight; the guy internalizes other people’s actions like a champ. Maybe even worse than you. Besides,” he squints, “I was feeling really shitty about my prosthetic and the mission in general, so I think I laid some of the guilt I was feeling on him.”

“Ah.” Steve sighs. “I think we all kind of contributed to how he’s feeling.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “So I want to be there for him, and apologize, too.”

“Got it,” Steve says. Then he smirks. “And anything else?”

“Fuck off, punk,” Bucky says, standing to leave. “Maybe something else in the future. But clearly we both have a lot of shit to work through on our own. I doubt a relationship started when we’re this fucked up would be a healthy one.”

“Aw, Buck,” Steve’s grin is growing, “that sounded almost mature of you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and walks out of the kitchen, heading to his bedroom. He sprawls on his bed and pulls out his phone just as another message comes through.

_‘Shit sorry I thought you were nat, didn’t check the name before replying.’_

_‘lukes is a bar near our apartment’_

_‘Sam said to let someone know where I was, I guess you’re as good as nat’_

Bucky frowns, but it makes sense.

_‘You said you’ll be okay. Are you by yourself?’_

Barton’s response is quicker this time.

_‘Yeah I come here a lot’_

_‘I mean as much as anywhere else, I don’t actually drink a lot’_

_‘But Luke’s is good. Good people here.’_

Bucky smiles at Barton’s cover up.

_‘No shame if you do, I used to drink as a coping mechanism too. But we’re all getting better and healthier now, right?’_

Barton’s reply makes Bucky laugh out loud.

_‘In Sam’s name, amen.’_

_‘Glad you’ll be alright. Hey, would you be interested in hitting up the range with me tomorrow?’_

Bucky’s teeth draw over his bottom lip as he waits for Barton’s response. They’d been down to the range before, of course, but Bucky’s never been the one to initiate the invitation. He feels vulnerable for asking. He and Barton both have fun there, each excelling in their own ways at target practice. Bucky had even gotten him to show off some of his circus trick shots, and Barton had been more than happy to oblige, turning cartwheels and vaulting over obstacles with bow in hand. It’s a safe ask, Bucky thinks, familiar territory with positive associations.

_‘Nah, sorry. I’m gonna stay away from shield for a bit. Need to get my head on straight before I go back in.’_

_‘Sure, I get that’_

Bucky responds, then sends another.

_‘Whenever you do decide to come back, make sure to hit me up.’_

Then, with his heart in his throat, he types and presses send one more time.

_‘Or before then, we could meet up for some non-SHIELD related stuff.’_

Barton’s response is both quick and unsatisfying.

_‘Sure, I will.’_

Bucky sends him one last _‘good, be safe tonight’_ before rolling onto his back and feeling something like a rejected grandmother. He didn’t need to tell Barton to be safe; the man is a fully functional adult. Okay, maybe mostly functional, providing coffee or Natasha are involved.

Bucky grins at the image that pops into his mind of Barton spluttering like a fish out of water when Bucky had winked at him on the Quinjet before the mission. He sobers with a shake of his head as that image is replaced by the hurt look Barton had worn in the med bay, the one Bucky’d been too self-absorbed to notice in the moment.That mission had really fucked up a lot of things.

He looks back over Barton’s messages, and tries not to take Barton’s rejection to heart. It’s not personal, he knows that, but still. It sucks. He sighs, phone against his chest, and stares at the ceiling.

It’s then he realizes that he hasn’t thought about his own mission related guilt in hours.

* * *

Bucky notices his fingers drumming on the table in the conference room and wills them to stop. They’re waiting for Fury’s call, Stark’s holographic technology queued up and ready. Across from him, Natasha has her brow furrowed, gazing out of the window behind Bucky’s head, which is unusual; typically she’s all focus and concentration the moment she steps through the door. The seat next to her is glaringly empty.

“Clint coming in from the youth center today?” Steve asks from beside Bucky, taking a sip from his mug of coffee.

Natasha shakes her head as she comes back to the room. “No.”

Agent Coulson steps into the room, a stack of manila folders in his hands. “Hawkeye won’t be in today.” He passes the folders around the room.

Steve takes his, then asks, “Is everything alright? Do we need to know anything?”

“I’m sure you know as much as I do,” Coulson says. “He’s not under disciplinary, and this leave is of his own volition. Regardless, he’s not needed for this briefing or mission.”

Even after his text conversation with Barton the night before, Bucky still feels concern well up in his stomach. He feels a strange desire to defend Barton’s usefulness without him there, knowing how hearing the words ‘ _not needed’_ would have set him off.

Coulson continues. “In a minute, Director Fury will be calling us from headquarters to explain the situation, then I’ll go over expectations with you when he’s done. Everything relevant to this operation is in the folders in front of you.”

Bucky wonders how inclusive Coulson’s use of the word ‘everything’ is.

“Got it.” Steve opens his file. Further down the table, Banner and Wanda do the same.

Natasha does not.

A low, pleasant hum fills the room, and a moment later, a blue holographic projection of the Director appears. They can see his torso, and Bucky can tell that he’s standing with his arms clasped behind his back, gaze direct and focused.

“Good afternoon, Avengers,” he begins, and Bucky can’t help but wonder what alternate name Barton would come up with today if he were here. “We have received reports of movement throughout the eastern burroughs that we think may be related to Hydra.” There’s a ripple around the room as everyone tilts forward.

“As you know, we’ve been tracking the disappearance and capture of several scientists whose work relates to radiation and biotechnology. Earlier this week, a former Soviet scientist living in Brooklyn went missing, but we have reason to believe that his disappearance was consensual, and that there may be more ties to Hydra amongst his companions and in the area.”

“Former Soviet?” Bucky interrupts, frowning. He glances at Natasha, and sees her looking dubious as well, her calm demeanor betrayed by the slightest downturn of her mouth. The Soviet Union dissolved nearly 30 years ago, and Bucky’s been around long enough to know that referencing the dead government is usually a fear-mongering tactic. SHIELD should be better than that.

“Yes,” Fury says, his single eye challenging. “Since immigrating here in ’97, he hasn’t touched anything related to his field, working instead at a curios shop for tourists. We’ve kept tabs on him due to the nature of his work.” He stares at Bucky for a moment longer, so Bucky tilts his head to acquiesce to the explanation.

“What you’ll find in the folders will explain more background about the scientist, the area, what we know about the situation, as well as outline the operation. Direct all of your questions to Agent Coulson at this point.” He gives them a brief nod, then the holograph blinks out.

Coulson takes a seat at the head of the table, behind where the holograph had been just a second before. He pulls out his own folder, rifling through the documents inside. “This operation should be a quick one, without need for much, if any force. This will be an intel-gathering mission on the area this scientist, Dr. Koslov, frequented.”

Natasha hums. “Are we going to Brighton Beach?”

Coulson nods, and it makes sense. Brighton Beach is an ethnic enclave for many Russian and Eastern Europeans, and though Bucky’s never been there with the explicit goal of observing unrest, as kids he and Steve had been to Coney Island just down the waterfront and he can remember the stupid, stereotype-motivated things teenagers would say about the creepy commies hanging out in Brighton.

“Yes, Dr. Koslov has lived there for the past 17 years, and this is why you, Ms. Romanov, and you, Ms. Maximoff, will be the primary operatives, accompanied by Mr. Barnes.” Bucky feels his face change, and Coulson must notice, saying, “Romanov and Maximoff will be there for their language skills, and Barnes will be there as a precautionary measure. As I said, violence is not anticipated, but—”

“It doesn’t hurt to be cautious,” Steve says, running his index finger along the text of one of the documents.

“Exactly,” Coulson says. “Questions?”

Natasha has yet to open her briefing folder. “This seems different from the other things we have done for SHIELD.”

“That’s because it is,” Coulson agrees. “This is the kind of work we traditionally have our standard SHIELD agents complete, but the Director has decided to assign the Avengers to it for two reasons. Primarily, you have the training for it. We have obviously focused more heavily on other aspects of your training, but you have all gone through standard, base-level undercover and intelligence gathering training. Secondly, Fury wants to see if your skill sets align with this type of work, and this is a good mission to serve as a trial run.”

“Is there anything you need me for on this?” Banner asks, thumbing through the papers.

“Not on this mission, but we want you to begin to look into Dr. Koslov’s work. We have some other SHIELD scientists working on it, but your eyes and your experience with radiation are always useful,” Coulson says. “And Rogers, I’d like you at headquarters with me for this one.”

Steve nods. He’d probably been expecting that as soon as Coulson left him off the list of active participants.

Bucky opens the folder in front of him, finding pictures and a written overview of Brighton Beach on top. “So, what’s the actual op?”

“It’s explained in detail on page 13.” Coulson folds his hands together on top of the table. Bucky just stares at him, until he sighs and relents. “The three of you will be posing as visitors, spending the day in the area tomorrow. There are several key locations for you to stop by, including Dr. Koslov’s shop, and two restaurants that SHIELD has suspicions about. Barnes, you’ll play the American you are, host to your cousin,” he points at Natasha, “and her friend, who are visiting you from Voronezh.”

“What about the tension between Russia and its neighbors?” Wanda asks. “They have been at war with many of us, or at least small fighting, for many years now.”

“You should be fine,” Coulson says. “Many Sokovian refugees ended up in Voronezh after the civil war, so your making friends with Natasha will not be out of place.”

Wanda hums and goes back to the briefing.

“There’s a list of people to look out for and attempt to engage with should you see them,” Coulson says. “You’ll be outfitted with similar body cameras to the ones you’ve been using lately so that we can analyze footage for extra details that you may miss.”

“By engage, you mean…” Natasha asks, narrowed eyes scrutinizing.

“Speak with, that’s all. The goal of this mission is just to gather information,” Coulson says.

“I’m just there as back-up muscle,” Bucky clarifies.

“Yes,” Coulson says. “Any other questions before we start looking at details?”

“You’re sure this isn’t the type of thing it would be useful to have a pair of eyes in the sky for?” Bucky asks. He hasn’t been on many of them, but he knows that Barton and Natasha have gone on intelligence missions together where Barton had served as look out.

“Like I said,” Coulson says patiently, “this will be low-stakes. Surveillance is not necessary.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, and sees Natasha do the same. Steve notices, and speaks up. “I think we’re just running a little high concern here after yesterday’s mission. I’m sure the information you have in this briefing will assure us that sending Bucky is backup enough?”

Coulson smiles at the peace offering. “It should. If you’d all turn to the 2nd page, let’s talk about Brighton Beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never had a group therapist before, but I don't imagine it's entirely out of the realm of possibilities that they'd check up on their people like this. I mean if Curtis from the Punisher taught me anything... 
> 
> WHAT'S WAITING AT BRIGHTON BEACH?!


	8. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey would you have been able to guess that Peter Parker is actually incredibly insightful about interpersonal relationships?_

When Clint rolls out of bed just after eleven, it’s to the oppressive silence of a completely empty apartment. There had been a moment—a flash, a brief respite—where he didn’t remember everything from the past two days, where he was able to forget running out of therapy, forget letting down his team, forget being totally and utterly alone in his misery. But then his eyes adjust to the late morning sun streaming through his blinds, and everything floods back into glaring focus.

Natasha isn’t in the apartment; she’s on a mission for SHIELD, some sort of undercover operation in the Russian part of Brooklyn. He’d gotten in late last night, intending to avoid her again, but she’d been lying in wait in the kitchen with the lights off. He hoped she hadn’t been there long. It had taken some verbal gymnastics, but he’d managed to make it to his bedroom without answering too many of her questions. She let him go after folding him into her arms, head at chest height, squeezing far tighter than one might think her tiny frame would allow.

Clint feels the ghost of her embrace now as he sits up in bed, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “Shit, Lucky, what I’d give for your nasty breath in my face right now,” he tells the empty room, swinging both feet onto the ground.

He meanders into the kitchen in his boxers, scratching absently at the bandage around his chest. Natasha had wanted to check that, too, but he’d put her off by saying he’d get it checked by SHIELD soon, careful not to outline what exactly _soon_ meant in this situation. He likes words like that, likes the ambiguity they offer. Soon in this case, for example, means probably within the next month.

Clint dumps coffee grounds into the filter and presses the buttons to start the machine. While waiting, he thinks about Sam’s homework for him. He’d talked to Sam again yesterday when he got back to the apartment and was in a slightly less panicky state of mind. He’d tried putting himself ‘back in the place he last felt his best’ mentally, but sitting in a dark apartment that smelled like coffee, Natasha and Lucky with only one of those things made it hard to be positive in the slightest. Yesterday had been weird, knowing that Nat was at Stark Tower getting briefed on a new mission without him. The rest of the team was probably there, too, wondering where he was, speculating about how much of a screw up he was, how he hadn’t been able to handle the pressure, how he’d cracked after a mission that they had technically succeeded in, how he didn’t deserve to be on the team, how they’d be better off—

The beep of the coffee machine startles him out of his spiral, and he grimaces, shakes his head. He reaches over to the freezer, grabs a handful of ice cubes and throws them into the coffee pot, swirling it around to melt them faster. Natasha would slap him for ruining coffee that was already cheap and shitty, but Natasha wasn’t here, and Clint was in favor of quantity over quality when it came to his morning caffeine. He’d drink just about anything if it got him feeling human quickly, even if it was ridiculously watered down.

Most of the ice melted, he raises the pot to his mouth, the lid whacking him in the face, flecks of grounds spattering across his cheekbones. It’s the perfect temperature, and he chugs it as he walks back to his room.

Once there, he stares around the space, trying to decide what to do. If he was having a hard time getting somewhere positive mentally, Sam had told him to go there physically. Clint rubs his nose and pulls on jeans, briefly noting the giant hole in the thigh that definitely is not an intentional fashion statement.

Sam wasn’t wrong about him feeling lost, lately. Before the explosion, Clint had known what he was good at, even if he made mistakes often enough. He’d been scrambling sure, drowning, yeah, but he’d been happy with the work he did at the youth center. He’d been committed to finding success with the kids, to meeting their needs, even if that meant abandoning some of his own health and mental well-being along the way. That’s why he’d shown up to Brooklyn Counseling Connections in the first place with Nat, after all.

He roots around through the pile of clothes in the bottom of his closet to find a shirt that doesn’t smell too bad, settling on a purple tank he’d found at a thrift store a few years back. It has a silhouette of Sergeant Whiskers from Dog Cops on it, and only one small hole in the hemline. He finds two socks in the pile as well, and pulls those on.

The last time he’d been happy, and felt like he was good at something was probably at the youth center, even though it hadn’t been the best place for him lately. It’s Saturday, so there’s probably a club or two meeting. He’d told Claire after the disaster back in January that he needed to take a step back from helping out with extracurriculars, and though it’d nearly killed him to do so, she’d at least been appreciative of him being upfront with her so that she wasn’t relying on him anymore. She’d told him he was welcome to drop by if he wanted, even if he couldn’t commit to it every time anymore. He scrunches his nose as he tries to remember which week it is. If it’s the third week (and he thinks it might be), the LGBTQ+ club is meeting today. That might help put him in the right headspace to think about what Sam wants him to.

He slips on a pair of Converse, then scrounges up a grey zip up hoodie, lest he offend the proprieties of his boss or scandalize any children with the sight of his biceps. There’s about half an hour to kill before he needs to head to the center, so Clint finishes the rest of the coffee in one go and heads outside to hit the streets in search of food.

He makes it into the hallway before his plans are waylaid.

“Clint!” Simone, his neighbor from across the hall, is standing in her doorway, pyrex dish filled with burger patties in hand.

“Hey, Simone, it’s been a minute,” Clint says sheepishly. It really has.

“No kidding, we’ve missed seeing you and that mutt around lately.” Simone pulls the door closed behind her. “Where are you going right now? You got a few?”

“I was just heading out to get some food, gotta go to the center in a little,” Clint hedges.

“Perfect.” Simone’s eyes alight and she grabs his arm. “The kids are already upstairs, Gil has things fired up, let’s get you some grub.”

Clint lets himself be maneuvered down the hallway, protesting for the sake of it. “I don’t have anything to contribute, it’s been forever since I’ve made it up there.”

Simone rolls her eyes at him, patting his elbow. “Exactly. Like I said, we’ve missed you! I thought for sure once you started quitting all those part-time jobs we’d see you more around here. Besides, you know everyone gets a free pass for bringing food. That’s the whole point of this being a community cookout. You’re allowed to rely on your neighbor’s generosity every once in a while.”

Clint feels his face break into a grin as he recognizes the tiny flare of guilt that burns in his chest and is able to dismiss it immediately. What Simone says isn’t wrong; everyone forgets to bring food to their rooftop cookouts sometimes, and he’s covered for people before, so he shouldn’t feel guilty about relying on them this time around. “If you insist,” he says.

“I most definitely do,” Simone confirms, using her hip to push open the door to the roof.

Outside, the sun is shining brightly, reflecting off rooftops, tv antennas, and windows as far as Clint can see. Simone’s kids are in the corner, playing some sort of make-believe game with Aimee, whose pink hair is blowing in the breeze as she stands with her hands on hips, the mock fury on her face marking her as the villain in their story. Grills (did Simone say _Gil?_ ) is over at the grill, Tito next to him arranging condiments. A few other neighbors are seated in the weatherbeaten chairs around the empty metal trash can they use as a fire pit in the winter. Clint frowns: did he make it to a single evening by the fire with his neighbors this winter?

Simone still has her arm slotted through his, and pulls him towards the grill. Tito looks up with a smile as they approach, one hand over his eyes to block the sun.

“Simone, you managed to wrangle Clint up here, I’m impressed,” he says, pulling the ketchup out of a basket someone had brought from their kitchen.

“Sorry I’ve been a little…absent, lately,” Clint says. “Can I help at all?”

Simone and Tito both laugh, and Simone hands her pyrex dish to Grills-who-might-be-named-Gil. “This guy hasn’t changed at all, has he?” she asks Tito.

“Not always here, but when he is, the most helpful one around,” Tito agrees. “I think we’re good, Clint. Instead, how about you tell us how you’ve been lately? How are the kids at the center? And Natasha—you know, we saw her just a couple weeks ago, she stopped by before going into work, the busy lady.”

Clint blinks. He had no idea Natasha had been to one of the rooftop gatherings lately, and feels a little more guilty about not showing up. If she’d managed to do so, why couldn’t he? “Nat’s good, like you said, real busy. Did she tell you she’s leaving Landman and Zack?”

Simone and Tito hum, and Clint settles into conversation with them, treading carefully around topics that might lean a little too close to their work with SHIELD. Grills-possibly-Gil has the burgers ready in no time, and Clint makes his way over to where there’s an empty chair not far from where the rest of the neighbors are sitting. He tilts his head up in greeting, but doesn’t engage, still feeling a little uncomfortable with the shame of his avoidance, though he is sorely tempted when he notices Mitzi the lap dog getting passed around from person to person. He bites into his burger, staring out over the rooftops.

“You know, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t been around much.” Simone sits down beside him with a huff. She arranges the lettuce and tomato on her bun as he looks at her. “We’re still happy to see you. You’re still a part of this community.”

Clint takes a giant bite of his burger to put off answering. “It’s been a while.”

She chuckles. “That doesn’t matter. You and Natasha have lived here for a few years now, and you’ve been a good neighbor this whole time. You’re a busy person, but we forgive you for that because you’re also a good person, Clint Barton.”

He feels his ears turn pink, and opens his mouth to deny the unearned praise. She flicks him. “Don’t start with me. Who helped fix my sink on the day they moved in? Who got our landlord off his ass to fix the water heater in the middle of December last year? Who has the most lovable mutt this side of Brooklyn that leaves my kids begging for a dog every time he stays over?” Her eyes soften. “I know you’ve been busy lately, but you know that saying—don’t be a stranger? Well, don’t let your absence trick you into thinking that you’ve become a stranger, either. We’re still here, and we still think you’re pretty great.”

“I…I don’t know about all that, Simone,” Clint says, then shoves more of his burger in his mouth, completely lacking the ability to form a more coherent response. At this point, the back of his neck and chest are warm too, and he’d be more of a fool than normal to think it was from the sun glaring down on them.

“Ah, can’t come up with anything better than that?” Simone arches her eyebrows in challenge. “That just means you know I’m right.” She smirks, then nudges his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you off the hook. Have you heard about the tracksuit mafia that’s been hanging around lately?”

Clint tips his phone towards his face; he’s got another 20 minutes before he needs to leave if he wants to make it to the center in time for the club meeting. “You know, I think I might’ve had a run in with them, actually,” he tells Simone, leaning against her. “But tell me more.”

* * *

Bucky holds open the door to Kotov Gifts, tinkling chime above the door harmonizing with Wanda and Natasha’s giggles as they saunter in arm-in-arm. Air con cold air billows into his face, a welcome respite from what has turned into an unseasonably warm day in mid April. He follows in after them, hands in his pockets. It’s been an adjustment period for him, the changing weather signaling the end of his ability to wear jackets and gloves every day without drawing attention to himself. He can still get away with it for now, but is trying to get in the habit of just keeping his prosthetic hand in his pocket at all times.

The shop is overflowing with products, colors bursting at the seams. Bucky looks around, wide-eyed, and is grateful that he’s not supposed to act like he’s familiar with all of this. He wanders up behind Natasha and Wanda, who are taking apart a Russian stacking doll together, passing the figure back and forth as it grows smaller and smaller.

“Hey, didn’t you send me one of these when I was little?” he asks, leaning over Natasha’s shoulder.

She blinks playfully up at him, then shoots a rapid sentence of Russian to Wanda, who bends over, giggling furiously. Natasha looks at Bucky and smirks, eyes urging him to play along. “Yes, I am so glad you remembered. You did enjoy?”

“Hey now, you said that everyone had one back home,” Bucky says, trying for indignant. He adjusts the brim of the snapback he’s wearing backwards over his hair, leaning into the bro persona for this disguise.

“That was not a lie,” Natasha says, her accent amplified as she bites her lip.

“Whatever, you jerk,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. He leaves them to their fun and drifts across the shop, letting his body camera pick up different angles as he peruses various items he has absolutely no cultural connotation for.

There are a few other patrons in the store, and Bucky makes sure to place himself at the right angle so the tiny camera in his collar can see each of their faces. At first, he discounts a couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts, bucket hats and those weird strappy sandals Barton calls Jesus camp shoes, before deciding that he’d better be safe and get everyone. After all, if they were playing tourists, who’s to say that Mr. and Mrs. Tacky weren’t plants as well?

He finishes a lap of the store and makes his way back to Natasha and Wanda, who have navigated over to a display of white and pink china that stretches from floor to ceiling. “Find anything worth getting here?” he asks, their code for being ready to move on and make contact with the cashier.

“Maybe for you,” Wanda says. “We have all of this, but better, at home. But maybe you should be the one getting things today, make your Brooklyn much better.”

Bucky grins at her, speaking the truth as he says, “I have absolutely zero desire to spend any money here today, but thanks for the recommendation.”

Wanda snorts and shoots an exasperated look in Natasha’s direction, who rolls her eyes inagreement. _Stupid American_. Natasha plucks two matching teacups from the shelf and dangles them in the air. “We will start your collection with these, so that next time you can offer us proper tea like real Russian, yes?”

“Whatever you say, cuz,” Bucky says, feeling immediately idiotic for the outdated slang.

“Americans,” Wanda says dramatically, leading the way to the cash register. Bucky decides to play the part, and pretends he doesn’t hear her.

When they get to the front of the shop, a squat woman with her gray hair pulled back into a low bun greets them in Russian, and Natasha responds in kind. It’s been that way all morning, most of the residents assuming that they have at least some grasp of the mother tongue as they’d dipped in and out of shops and restaurants. Natasha leans into the conversation, eyes sparkling as she presumably goes through their cover story. She slaps a palm across Bucky’s chest, then grabs his chin and pinches it, shaking his head from side to side. Bucky only picks up the word for cousin, but he doesn’t need to understand the language to know she’s describing him as one might an annoying little brother, tolerated only for his utility. He smiles along anyway, as though he has no idea, and vows to pay her back in the near future.

He tunes in as he hears Natasha drop the name Kotov, and watches as the woman’s eyes widen momentarily before nodding. She points to the door behind her that says ‘Employees Only’, then says something to Natasha, who nods her agreement. The woman pushes through the door, and Natasha immediately turns to them, maintaining her facade.

“She has gone to get her husband, the esteemed Mr. Kotov,” she tells them both. “She says he is just in the back, and will be so happy to talk to someone from Voronezh.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow imperceptibly before he smiles brightly. “That’s great! I know you were excited to meet him.” Whoever the woman is about to bring to the front, he doubts it’s Kotov, which is the name the former Soviet scientist Koslov has been using since immigrating here nearly two decades ago.

“It is wonderful,” Natasha agrees, running her finger along her own collar to tell Bucky to be sure to get his face on camera. SHIELD will be able to run anyone they get on film through a database of people identified as part of or adjacent to Hydra.

The woman emerges from the door a few seconds later, a stout older man following behind her. Natasha and Wanda give their greetings, and the man quickly warms to them, ruddy face breaking into a big smile. Bucky acts the part of a bored companion, shifting from side-to-side and eventually pacing around the front of the store as their conversation winds on. After getting what he feels is more than enough footage, he taps Wanda on the shoulder, and tells her he’ll wait outside.

He stands under the awning, back up against the glass, settled at the perfect point where he can just see the beginning of the boardwalk in one direction, a busy four way intersection in the other. He scans the streets, watching for anyone or anything that seems out of place. All manner of people pass him, a cacophony of unfamiliar Eurasian languages clashing over him. He feels deaf, somehow, despite the noise. A pair of babushkas toddle past him, each with a large basket in their hands, heads tilted together as they make their way about their day.

“Ready for lunch, dear cousin?” Natasha emerges from the shop next to him, Wanda just a pace behind.

“Starving,” Bucky says. “But no salted herring this time, please.” They’d picked some up from a street cart a few blocks before at Wanda’s insistence.

Wanda giggles. “But it is such a delicacy!”

“I’m sure it is, for people with taste buds ruined by vodka,” Bucky says, then turns towards Natasha. “How was your talk with Mr. Kotov?”

“Very nice,” she says, gesturing for them to start walking down the street. “But you know, I do not think he has been here as long as he says he has.” She meets his eyes and nods, confirming Bucky’s suspicions: whoever they had playing Koslov, Natasha had deduced he was connected in some way to the real Koslov’s disappearance.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it at lunch,” Bucky says.

* * *

“And in today’s LGBTQ+ positive news….” Miles pauses dramatically as Peter drums on the desk beside him, “a small town in Texas just elected an openly gay woman to their city council!”

“Alright, Texas!” Rebel says from the back of the room. “Way to start catching up with the rest of us!”

Peter grins widely and flips the projector to the next slide, where there’s a compilation of pictures of various versions of gender-neutral bathroom placards. “Thanks everyone for sending in all the different bathroom signs you guys found this month, and for those of you who followed through and either posted about them on your socials or spoke to the employees of the places!”

The room bursts into conversations as everyone looks through the different pictures, giggling over some of the more creative signs, rolling their eyes at others. There’s one that portrays the silhouette of a person in pants trying to look over a stall and a person in a dress holding a gun back at them, which gets the most conversation once people notice it.

“Okay, now onto the second part of this—discussion time,” Miles says after a minute, and Peter flips to the next slide. “Do gender neutral bathroom signs that try to be funny actually contribute to non-binary and trans erasure? Yes, no, sometimes, and why?”

The room settles into silence before a quiet kid testing out the name Jake tentatively raises his hand, rainbow bracelets clinking down his arm. “I mean, I can talk about how that one with the alien on it makes me feel?” He darts a glance at the adults, and both Clint and Claire nod back encouragingly.

They settle into conversation, some kids debating back and forth, others sitting back and listening. At one point, Rebel jumps onto their chair in the middle of a rant about the objectification of non-binary folks, and in the middle of the cheers that follow, Clint smiles.

Yeah, being here feels right. Here, surrounded by these kids in a place that he’s helped curate into a comfortable space where they can be themselves, he feels like he fits. There’s a warm feeling sitting in his chest, and he takes a second to analyze it. Joy, definitely. Empathy, always.And then niggling underneath it all, pride. Of his kids? Absolutely. But maybe, just maybe, of himself, just a little. He settles back in to watch.

The meeting continues for another few minutes before ending with their traditional close out, where each of the kids picks a goal for themselves for the month. It doesn’t have to be related to their gender or sexual identities, or even related to the club at all, though it often is. Today’s goals include finishing all homework for the month on time, asking a particular girl out (which got the expected number of oohs and subsequent red cheeks), cooking dinner for the family once a week, volunteering at a local Planned Parenthood, and working up the courage to come out to a best friend.

When the meeting ends, it’s a gradual process as kids hang around, leaving in clumps together or separate, each trickling back into their respective parts of the city. Clint checks in with a few, bumping fists and catching up on drama and stories he’s missed out on, even though he’s seen some of these kids just a few days ago after school; the lives of teenagers are in constant flux. Claire drops by to tell him she’s taking Emma to the front for some paperwork, and to close up shop in the room before he leaves.

He’s stacking the chairs, taking slightly longer than normal because of the whole cracked ribs situation he’s got going on, when Peter calls out to him. “Hey, Mr. Barton, do you have a second?”

He looks up and smiles. “By a second do you mean a second, or do you mean a couple minutes?”

“Probably more like a few minutes. Maybe like…a whole ten minutes, if you can spare them,” Peter responds with a grin, and Clint relaxes at the joking tone. They’ve seen each other since that day Clint had screwed things up, what with him still working most of his afternoon shifts each week, but their interactions have been superficial, occasionally bordering on awkward.

“Yeah, of course. Help me out with these chairs first?”

“Sure,” Peter says, grabbing one in either hand to haul over to the stack.

Together they make quick work of the remaining chairs, and Clint straightens, brushing non-existent dust off his hands. “Alright, kid, shoot.”

“Actually,” Peter responds, “Let’s head to the rec room? It’s more comfortable there.”

“Ah, yes, the scene of our most recent thrilling conversation,” Clint says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oooooooh.”

“You’re ridiculous, Mr. B,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes, and Clint follows him down the hall to the rec room, where they sit across from each other in bean bags. Clint picks up a hacky sack that’d been left out, tossing it back and forth. It’d be easy to write it off just as something to keep Clint’s hands busy, but it’s also for Peter to concentrate on if he doesn’t feel like meeting Clint’s eyes.

Clint tosses the hacky sack at Peter, who catches it and passes it between his own hands for a minute. “I wanted to just talk with you for a bit, I guess,” he says, and tosses the hacky sack back to Clint.

“Sure, you know I’m always down for that,” Clint says. “Assuming I’m here, of course,” he amends.

Peter skirts his eyes to the side, and grins sheepishly. “Yeah, about that.” He opens his mouth, then makes grabby hands for the hacky sack. Clint tosses it back in a high arc, and Peter snatches it out of the air.

“I wanted to apologize to you for how I exploded at you that one day when you missed the meeting a couple months ago. I shouldn’t have done that,” Peter says, looking down at the toy in his hands.

“What? No, you don’t need to apologize for that,” Clint says quickly. “That was 100% my fault, you had every right to be upset with me.”

“I mean sure, it was okay for me to be upset, but I didn’t need to yell,” Peter reasons. “And I like…tried to be mean to you on purpose, even though I knew you already felt bad. That was really crappy of me, and I don’t like that I did that.”

Clint sits in that for a second, scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, thanks for the apology, even though I still think you were in the right.”

The hacky sack hits him in the chest.

“You’re going to sit there and tell me it’s okay to yell at people when they make a mistake?” Peter asks, eyebrows raised. “You, who just reminded everyone in the meeting to always remember people’s humanity? Mr. B, that’s a little hypocritical, dontcha think?”

Clint’s mind fuzzes for a second.

“Well damn, I mean, dang kid, when did you get so mature?”

Peter smiles at him. “What do you expect, with me getting to hang out here most days with everyone, and you and Miss Temple as my mentors?”

Clint’s heartbeat feels loud in his chest.

“You’re going to make me blush,” he says, ignoring the fact that he probably already is, according to the heat he feels on the back of his neck. Peter’s responding chuckle assures him he definitely is.

“So, all that out of the way, I wanted to tell you that I’m really liking the club,” Peter says. “It’s been really cool to learn things and be involved.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Clint says. “You’ve probably noticed I haven’t been to the past two meetings, when was your first one?” The first meeting he’d missed after the disastrous one, he’d been at SHIELD for a debriefing, the second he’d been halfway to California on a reconnaissance mission with Natasha.

“Today was my third, and the first I signed up to do anything for,” Peter says.

“Yeah, I loved how you helped moderate that discussion about bathroom signs,” Clint says with a smile. “It could’ve gotten real tense.”

Peter’s eyes shine, and he tilts his chin up proudly. “Yeah, me and Miles talked about it beforehand, about what people might say and how to talk them down. Plus we told Ms. Temple so she could step in, just in case.”

Clint whistles, eyebrows raised. “Dang, good thinking. So, what made you finally decide to join? You clearly got sick of waiting around on my old butt.”

“I realized I didn’t actually need you there,” Peter says, then his eyes widen and he waves his hands hurriedly. “Not in a bad way or anything, but like, you not being there helped remind me that this was something I shouldn’t need to rely on anyone for. I mean, it’s a freaking LGBT club, like, that’s the most inclusive place ever, I couldn’t let myself be scared of that. If it was something I wanted to do, I had to do it. Me saying I couldn’t do it without you was just a cop out.”

“That’s…really cool,” Clint says. “Are you proud of yourself for that?”

“I am,” Peter says. “So maybe I should say thanks for ditching me?”

This time it’s Clint who throws the hacky sack, nailing Peter in the shoulder. “Hey now!”

Peter shoots the hacky sack back at him, and Clint lets it hit him, holding back a wince as it thumps against the graze along his ribcage.

“No, for real though Mr. B, you’ve helped a lot. You’re like…making me be responsible for myself, and like…obviously you help make me and all the kids who show up here feel comfortable, so that’s, I guess, pretty cool.”

“Okay kid seriously, I can’t handle all of this, you’re going to need to stop,” Clint responds, and pelts him with the hacky sack again.

“Whatever,” Peter says, tossing it back and forth between his hands. “I just thought you’d want to know how your favorite student is a happier person because of you, but it’s cool if not. I mean, I’ve only seen a thousand posts online about how people in social work are under-recognized and under-appreciated, but again, whatever, maybe that’s all a lie.”

“Better not let Kate hear you call yourself the favorite,” Clint says, for lack of a better response, while his mind reels.

Peter smirks at his obvious discomfort, then goes for the killing blow, launching the hacky sack at Clint’s face as he does. “What about you, Mr. B, are you happier lately? With your new job and everything?”

The toy crumples with a _thwack_ against Clint’s nose.

“Jesus, Peter, don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask adults if they’re happy?”

“Well, that’s just dumb,” Peter says conversationally, kicking his feet out in front of him. “Adults are supposed to be able to talk about their emotions, you know. You guys can’t go around telling us to strive for happiness if you don’t make that a goal for yourselves, too. So, fess up, mentor man, are you happy?”

Clint shakes his head with a grin, and lets out a huff. “I am sometimes. I like my new job, it’s important. Lately hasn’t been awesome, if I’m being honest with you, because I’ve made some mistakes, but that’s okay.”

Peter squints his eyes at him, then nods, apparently satisfied with the honesty he hears in Clint’s answer. “Well, I’m sorry it’s not awesome all the time, and you’re not always happy with it, cause you deserve to be. Good people deserve to be happy.”

“What are you, sixteen going on sixty today? Jeez, you sound like my mom,” Clint exclaims. Though, actually, Peter’s sounding a lot like Natasha right now. And Sam. And Simone. Shit, if everyone’s saying this, maybe Clint is the one in the wrong.

Peter rolls his eyes again. “You’ve got to work on accepting compliments, Mr. B.”

“No, you,” Clint replies eloquently. Peter tries to roll his eyes, but his exasperation is unsuccessful as he chortles out laughter. His snorts and Clint’s cackles ricochet off the high ceilings of the rec room in a beautiful mix of entertainment, forgiveness and unrepentant joy.

Their laughter slowly tapers off, and Peter checks his phone. “I’ve gotta go in a second, I’m heading over to Ned’s tonight, but thanks for taking the time to talk today. I appreciate it.”

“I feel like I should be thanking you, kid,” Clint says. “I’m pretty sure I just got a free therapy session from a sixteen year old. What’s that line from Star Wars, the student becoming the teacher or something?”

Peter shakes his head and gets to his feet, straightening his hoodie. “That’s an old reference, old man. You’re lucky they made that new series with a totally squishable baby Yoda, or that would’ve been totally over my head.”

Clint splutters at the audacity of the youth.

Peter walks to the door, then pauses, looking back. “Oh and also, Mr. B? If these mistakes you’ve been making at your new job are anything like the mistake you made when you missed the club meeting, you’re probably not doing as bad a job as you think.” His eyes sharpen, and an evil grin steals across his otherwise angelic face. “Why do you gotta be so _dramatic_ all the time?”

“I am not!” Clint protests loudly, hands flying into the air above his head, one launching the hacky sack across the room, where it hits the wall with a thump.

Peter grins again, and vanishes through the doorway.

Less than a minute later, Clint’s phone emits a harsh ringing, vibration pulsing in his pocket.

_Avengers Assemble._

He curses and dashes for the door. As he skids along the linoleum past reception, his phone starts to vibrate again in his hand, Nat’s name flashing.

* * *

They opt out of a formal restaurant for lunch, Wanda acting the excited young adult as she pulls them inside a bazaar, windows plastered with peeling pictures of different Russian and Eurasian products. Inside, much like the shop they’d been in before, there are shelves stuffed with goods from floor to ceiling, aisles overflowing with Cyrillic script and things Bucky’s never heard of. There also appears to be nearly an entire aisle dedicated completely to mayonnaise.

They do an obligatory walk through each of the rows of the supermarket, Natasha and Wanda flitting through and pointing things out for each other while Bucky follows at a more sedate pace.

“Are you going to get anything?” he asks when they get to the second to last row. “Or are you just running around here to make me suffer?”

They share a commiserating look, then Wanda rolls her eyes and drags him forward. “We are here for the food, of course.”

“And here I thought all this _was_ food,” Bucky grumbles, ducking his head deferentially to a woman passing with her shopping cart.

“No, _durak_ ,” Natasha says, and Bucky blinks at the endearing slur she usually reserves for Barton. “ _This_ food. It is time for your education.”

She sweeps her arm back as they emerge at the end of the aisle in front of a row of glass counters, behind which rests an array of hot dishes Bucky has absolutely zero connotation for. Wanda rushes forward, pressing her hands to the glass, looking for all the world like a kid in a candy store. She gestures Natasha forward, and the redhead steps beside her to join in her excitement. Bucky hangs back, watching the two twitter and point, occasionally asking the server behind the counter questions.

He’s not sure just how Wanda’s managed to go a whole three years in New York without making it to the Eastern European enclave they’ve got over here, but he wonders how much easier her life would have been if she’d at least had community in her transition to a new country sans family and stability. Her eyes are alight with joy, smile stretched wide across her face. She’s practically vibrating, and Bucky gets so caught up analyzing her happiness that he doesn’t notice she’s speaking to him until she shoves a small white tray under his nose.

“Here, you eat this to start,” she says. “This is salo on black bread, very traditional.”

He takes it gingerly, then squints his eyes. “It’s not more herring, right? You promised.”

“It is not herring, no,” Natasha says reassuringly.

Bucky is not reassured.

He bites into the tiny sandwich, mouth cringing at the excessively salty flavor and chewy texture. He barely resists spitting it out, swallowing as quickly as he can, glaring balefully at both women. He puts the remaining part down, shoves it into Wanda’s hand, who’s bowed over laughing. “Nope, nope, no thanks. What even _is_ that?”

“Pork,” Natasha answers, since Wanda is incapable of responding at this point. “Salted pork fat, more specifically.”

“That is disgusting, you are disgusting,” Bucky tells Wanda, poking her in the side. “Why is everything salted? Why would you do this to me? You can’t tell me you actually like this.”

Wanda’s laughter begins to dwindle down, and she wipes at the corners of her eyes. “No, no, too slimy, I don’t like it. But it was what mother always wanted us to eat, and Pietro, he would always say, when we leave Sokovia, I am never eating salo again.” She looks down for a moment, her smile fading, then she catches Bucky’s eyes, and lets it grow again. “I think he would like this trick I play on you, with all of the salted things today.”

Bucky mock frowns at her while he scrambles to think of how to respond. Wanda’s family is dangerous territory, and normally Barton or Natasha are the ones she talks with about her past, outside of group. “I’m sure you’d make him proud to trick this dumb American,” he settles on with a lighthearted smile. “Now tell me, what did Pietro _actually_ like, and can you get me some of that?”

Wanda’s eyes crinkle at the corner as she nods, and she turns to move over to where several decadent looking cheesecakes are arranged in a glass cabinet.

Bucky feels a gentle tap on his arm, and he looks down at Natasha. “Good job with her,” she says softly, her exaggerated accent missing, a sign that she’s switched into something genuine and real. “She’s lucky to have you to care for her. You help make her happy, remind her not everything is terrible all of the time.”

Bucky finds himself staring after her as she saunters over to give Wanda her opinion on which slice of condensed milk, chocolate dipped cheesecake they should get. Natasha sees too much, and her words strike a cord deep within him. Him, make someone happy? That was other peoples’ jobs, not his. He watches as the two petite women debate the merits of the inclusion of fruit, latching onto the way Wanda seems lighter than normal. But visiting Brighton Beach aside, he’s seen Wanda smile more and more over the past five months, miles away from the closed off 21 year old that had first walked into group therapy. And Natasha thinks he’s a part of that?

He thinks about the jokes he’s made with her, the way he offered his shoulder to her after Clint stormed out of the last group therapy session. Maybe he has helped her. Maybe that’s a thing he can do, that he does, and maybe not just for Wanda?

“For you, much better, I promise,” Wanda says, offering him another white tray, this one with a chocolate dipped slice of cheesecake and a fork on it.

He takes a bite and smiles at her around it. “Much.”

She crinkles her nose at him and turns away, back to the counter. Bucky eats his way through the slice slowly, savoring the decadence. Natasha throws a glance over her shoulder at him. “What do you think, should we take some back for Clint?”

Bucky nods without even having to think about it. “He’d be all over this. Maybe this would help kick him out of his head, get him happy, too.”

He pauses with the fork halfway to his mouth as another thought occurs to him. Has he been helping Barton find happiness, too? Things had been easy between them over the past few months after that one day when they happened upon each other in the Avengers common room. Sparring sessions and SHIELD trainings have been filled with banter; even on missions Steve’s had to shut them down for clogging the comms. And it’s been nice, for Bucky, and he’s assumed for Barton too.

But he’s never thought about it this way, not about _happiness,_ not really. Barton’s a little fucked up, they all are. After six months of group therapy, Bucky knows he’s not alone in feeling like shit all the time, but so far he’s focused on how his and Barton’s interactions have helped keep his mind off his past, how Barton makes him feel calm and settled, helps him feel comfortable in his own skin. Helps him…be happy? He takes the bite from his fork before it falls, and glances back at Natasha.

‘ _You help make her happy’_ , she’d said. Does Bucky help make Clint happy, too? He thinks of Clint’s bright laughter as they’d touched down before storming the Hydra bunker just two days ago, of the way his blue eyes shine whenever Bucky grudgingly smiles at one of his lame jokes, of how until the other night over text, Barton had always readily invited him to extra practice at the range, flaunting circus tricks and going shot for shot with him. Bucky’s eyes narrow. Maybe he had been helping Barton find happiness, too.

And that’s what a relationship is supposed to be about right? Reciprocity? If he wants to move forward with Barton, he has to recognize that he has something to offer Barton, that it’s not just about Barton making Bucky’s life better, but knowing that he’s bringing something to the table as well. Bucky frowns as his fork makes it to his lips, empty. There’s nothing left on the tray.

He crumples it up and tosses it towards a trash can to the side. It hits the rim and bounces off, landing on the ground. He sighs and moves to pick it up. Barton probably wouldn’t have missed. He glares at his metal arm, then thinks wryly that at least Barton knows about that, about all the baggage Bucky’d be bringing into a relationship. But then, Barton has never really seemed to mind that, has he?

Damn, if Bucky’s going to try to be in a relationship with the guy, he’s first going to have to do a lot of work to convince himself he’s enough of a decent human to even be able to offer Barton anything.

He shakes himself out of the thought. Before he pursues anything like a relationship with Barton, he’s going to have to apologize for hurting him after the mission, and to do that, Barton’s going to have to come back in to SHIELD, which is entirely out of Bucky’s control at this point. There’s nothing Bucky can do about it in this moment. For now, he needs to focus on the mission at hand.

“You guys ready to get out of here?” he asks Natasha and Wanda, who are trading bites of cheesecake from their trays, Natasha having elected for one with fruit.

“Yes, we should get real lunch,” Natasha says, placing a twenty on the top of the counter with a murmured “ _Spasibo_ ” to the server.

They head out into the mid afternoon sun, heading towards the boardwalk, where they plan on grabbing lunch at a Uyghur restaurant Coulson wants them to check out. Bucky is three steps behind them when he hears a faint _fwip_ over his shoulder and sees Wanda stumble to the side, hand at her throat.

There’s another _fwip,_ and then a ping against the shoulder of his metal arm, and Bucky dives forward, grabbing Wanda by the waist, rolling into the alley to their right. Natasha is behind him and he looks back to see a dart skim over her shoulder, passing through the furl of her red hair. 

It’s when he hears the pounding of feet over gravel that he realizes the alley was the wrong decision. Three men dressed all in black are waiting, and Bucky hears three near simultaneous _fwip fwip fwips_ as they launch darts in his direction. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, trying to shield Wanda’s body from the darts, but the momentum of his dive inhibits his ability to avoid being hit himself. Two land as he turns his back to the attackers, thunking into his upper back and thigh, the third clinking along the ground next to him.

At the end of the alleyway where they’d just come from, a navy blue van pulls up, and two more men jump out, advancing quickly.

“Get out of here, Widow,” Bucky yells, staggering to his feet. He tries not to look at Wanda on the ground; there isn’t anything he can do for her at this point. One of the teacups from Kotov’s Gifts has rolled out of the shopping back, settling just past her outstretched fingers.

He lunges towards the men down the alley, pulling a knife from one of the few sheaths he has on him, Coulson and Steve having advised him against any firearms. He slashes at the first man, striking home along his forearm, but the other two are just as fast as he is right now, the tranquilizer beginning to work its way into his bloodstream, and their fists land, one striking at his left leg, the other chopping down on his side.

There’s a crash of glass to his left, and he can just see Natasha’s feet as she dives through the window into a residential apartment.

Another _fwip_ follows, and Bucky feels another pinch in the back of his thigh. He steps backwards, away from his assailants, and presses against the brick wall.There’s a shadow overtaking the sun, dimming the day around him.

The knife tumbles from his grip.

* * *

Clint bursts out of the center’s door and flips open his phone, jamming it to his ear as he narrowly avoids colliding with a woman and her stroller.

“Nat, what is it, are you okay, is it your mission, what is it?” Clint’s words are jumbled, and he looks from side to side along the sidewalk as his brain sketches out for a moment, trying to remember the closest subway stop that’ll get him to Manhattan.

He remembers right as Natasha starts to speak, her breathing quick, her tone low. “Yes, something went wrong. I think Hydra knew to look for us or knew that this mission was happening.” She pants for a moment, and Clint’s heartbeat stills in his chest.

“Are you okay, is—who else was there? Is everyone okay?”

“No. I mean, I’m fine,” Natasha says. “Just a few scrapes, nothing bad, but Clint, they took Bucky and Wanda.”

Clint turns a tight corner, nearly knocking an elderly woman off her feet. He sidesteps a group of teenagers, and spins to avoid a man talking loudly into his phone, turning away from a kiosk with a newspaper in hand. Then Natasha’s words register.

“What do you mean, they took them?”

“They had tranq darts, Clint. They were waiting in an alley, swarmed us from both sides. We had no idea they were there.”

“And they, Hydra, took Bucky? And Wanda?”

“Yes, there wasn’t anything I could do. We didn’t have guns or anything, and they put Wanda down first,” Natasha says, the only tell of her panic now a slightly quicker rate of speech.

“Okay, okay,” Clint says, trying to get his metaphorical feet under him as he hangs a sharp left, wrapping one hand around a street lamp to vault over a trashcan and into the crosswalk, avoiding a clump of pedestrians waiting for the walk sign. “But you’re safe now. On your way back to SHIELD? Or there already?”

“Nearly there,” Natasha says. “I was able to ditch my tails just past Coney Island. Called into Coulson already—I assume you got the Assemble?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, eyes flicking to the street signs. Four more blocks to the station, or eight if he wants to avoid at least one stop. At least this line is more consistent than others. “Actually, why are you calling? I’m gonna find all of this out when I get to the Tower, right? You didn’t need to tell me everything yourself, I’m sure they’ll make you report to everyone once we’re all there.” _Everyone who’s left_ , his brain helpfully supplies.

“That’s the thing,” Natasha says, then goes silent for a moment.

“What’s the thing?” Clint asks, brushing aside plastic sheeting to dash under construction scaffolding alongside an apartment complex in order to avoid the traffic jam on the thinner than normal sidewalk. He leaps over an errant pile of bricks, then runs along a narrow stack of 2x4s like he’s back on a tightrope.

“You don’t need to come in if you don’t want to,” Natasha says cautiously.

“What?” Clint asks. Is that hearing aid working properly? “I don’t need to come in?”

Natasha’s voice is hesitant as she continues. “Look, of course I want you there, and of course it would be good for you to be there, but you shouldn’t if you don’t want to.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clint pants heavily, chest heaving with exertion. He didn’t get the super soldier stamina upgrade like some people. “Of course I want to be there.”

“Maybe I didn’t say that right. Clint, you’re struggling right now, and you intentionally took time off this weekend. I don’t want you to throw that all away. I can cover for you with Coulson, if you want.”

Clint dodges the front of a taxi narrowly, waving apologetically at the driver as he keeps running. “Nat, I should’ve been there as the mission’s cover anyway. There’s no way I’m not coming in for this.” He feels a trickle of guilt in his chest that he knows has the ability to grow into a stream, a river, a flood.

“Don’t start apologizing for that,” Nat says, her voice sharp. “This wasn’t your mistake. It was Coulson’s call, and even that aside, intel didn’t place Hydra as this active in the area, and we had no idea they’d be able to mobilize so quickly.”

“Fine,” Clint says. “But like hell am I missing this. I need to be there for the team.”

He feels more than hears Natasha’s sigh through the phone, somehow. “You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself, you stubborn martyr.”

Clint lets out a low chuckle. “I have been today, I think.”

“Will you at least be careful this time?”

Clint’s laughter, through his panting, is louder this time. Only two blocks left to the second station. “I’m not going to promise to not be an idiot this time, Nat, but I can promise to try to protect myself, too.”

“I suppose that’s acceptable for now,” Natasha responds.

Clint thinks about his conversations with Peter and Simone, and chooses to lean into the discomfort.

“Yeah, I gotta be there, Nat. Because I know I can help—like me, as a person, Clint, I’m useful to the team. But also…I think I understand now what you mean about taking care of myself a little, too.” He shakes his head, tries again, but it’s hard to articulate the thoughts he’s only just beginning to comprehend himself. “I matter, Nat. To this team and all of these people I care about. To myself, I think. So maybe I won’t rush into danger quite as fast this time?”

“Slightly more acceptable,” Natasha says, her smile audible through the phone.

Clint’s hand shakes as his phone starts to vibrate. He looks down at the screen. “Hey, Nat, I gotta go, Tony’s calling. See you at the Tower as fast as I can get there.”

He hits accept call, and Tony’s voice explodes in his ear.

“Hey, Birdbrain, you in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. He can see the metro sign up ahead. “On my way in, just got the Assemble.”

“Okay so I knew that already, might’ve had JARVIS track your phone,” Tony says without an ounce of apology. “Can you head to Fort Greene instead?”

“Why?”

“I’ll be there in, oh, two and a half minutes,” Tony says. “I’ll give you a ride, it’ll be faster.”

“Sure, Tony,” Clint says. It’s only a few blocks away. “Not sure what kinda car you’ve got that can magically avoid this traffic, but I trust you.”

“Aw, how sweet of you,” Tony says. “Can you tell Coulson and Fury that they should trust me too?”

“Pretty sure they already do,” Clint says, feet dancing one in front of the other along a curb as he scoots behind a hotdog kiosk to avert wading through the line. “Otherwise they wouldn’t let you play house with us Super Powered Super Losers, you know.”

“Not your best,” Tony tsks. “I think you might need to stick with just calling yourself the Avengers if that’s the quality of names you come up with. Wait at the corner of Dekalb and Fort Greene?”

Clint looks up, then moves west towards that junction of streets. “Got it. What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Tony says, and if his voice sounds a little bit like he’s playing a prank, Clint doesn’t think much of it. Tony sounds like that at least 73% of the time.

“Whatever you say, Ironman.”

Clint arrives at the corner of the two streets and glances around him. There aren’t many people nearby, hospital on one side, park on the other. He’s just glancing back to face the street to watch for Tony’s car when a fast moving blur of red and gold slams into the concrete in front of him, pavement cracking as it lands.

Clint throws the current projectile in his hand reflexively. It happens to be his phone.

It nails what he’s starting to think is a robot directly in its humanoid shaped head, right in the middle of the eye slits on its golden faceplate. His phone snaps between screen and keypad, falling to the concrete.

“Well, damn,” Tony’s voice says as though through a filter, and Clint startles, because his phone is literally lying in two pieces on the ground, and he doesn’t have the comms feature in his hearing aids switched on.

The faceplate of the robot begins to lift, and Clint realizes that all he has left in his pockets is the hacky sack he’d unintentionally taken with him from the youth center. Not the most useful of weapons.

He throws it anyway. 

“Not cool, Barton,” Tony Stark’s face says from inside the robot, blinking his eyes rapidly, the left one scrunched up from where it has just been pelted by a cloth covered sack of plastic pellets.

“What the fuck, Tony?”

“Should’ve known your first instinct would be to throw something,” Tony says. “Sorry about your phone, but you really should’ve upgraded from a flip phone at least a decade ago.”

“It made me feel cool and hipster,” Clint says, because he is talking to a billionaire in a robot suit, so he’s not sure that this isn’t a dream anymore; what’s the harm in speaking the truth?

“You’re more lame than I thought,” Tony says, which isn’t fair, because Clint’s dreams shouldn’t be mean to him like this. “Well, let’s go, Hawkguy. Don’t want to keep little old Coulson waiting.”

He offers his right arm out to Clint, jutting out his foot at the same time. Clint steps hesitantly forward, and Tony’s faceplate snaps shut. Clint wraps his arms around the robot suit’s torso, and the arm tightens around him, completely immobilizing him.

“Coulson know about this thing?” he asks.

“Been trying to get him to let me play for ages now,” Tony says. “You’re not scared of heights, right?”

Clint scoffs. “My call sign is a bird, this’ll be fine.”

There’s a brief whine, then the robot suit carrying one Tony Stark and one Clint Barton jets off of the ground. Clint looks down and can see twin blue flames burning from its feet. They hover for a second while Tony presumably calculates the inclusion of a second body hanging off the suit. Then, they fly.

It is not fine.

* * *

When Bucky comes to, there’s a heaviness in his head, a tackiness in his mouth. He keeps his eyes closed, breathing steady and deep. He can feel cold air around him, as though the air con is set just low enough to maintain consistent discomfort. He’s lying on the ground on his side, neck tilted awkwardly to meet the ground, hair covering his face, wisps fluttering in front of his face with each breath. He shifts, rolls back his shoulders, and that’s when he realizes that his prosthetic is gone.

Stark had been so careful in his design of it, making it easy to detach for repair and cleanup, rather than strapping him to a chair in his lab whenever the arm needed a tuneup. The initial surgery had gone smoothly, all things considered, with the three minds of Stark, Banner, and Cho at work, carefully grafting the hitch to the remnants of Bucky’s shoulder joint, aligning and connecting neurons to electronics with the precision of well, two genius scientists and an equally genius surgeon. The hitch is the only permanent part, the rest of the prosthetic ready for any changes necessary. Bucky has detached it a few times already in the month or so since recovering from surgery, once for repair and twice more just because he could.

He could choose to have one arm again, if he wanted. He could choose to remove the shiny, metallic device that all but screams weapon as it whirrs and buzzes, plates writhing like malcontent snakes up and down his forearm. So far, he’s also chosen to put it back on each time.

He didn’t decide to take it off this time.

Bucky’s eyes snap open, and he kicks against the floor to scoot backwards at the same time, ready to take advantage of whatever situation he’s in. Only, he quickly realizes, there doesn’t appear to be much of a situation for him to take advantage of.

He’s in a cell, of sorts, though it looks significantly more advanced, if just as barren, as any interrogation room or holding cell he’d seen while with the Army. The walls around him, he notices as he presses back against one, are a durable metal, shiny and jarring. There’s no plates he can see, no seams in the wall, no air vent, no fucking drain in the floor, no weak points to exploit. He runs his hand along the wall beside him, and can feel their strength. Maybe if he had his prosthetic, with the extra power and bullet-proof vibranium plates, he could make some sort of dent here.

Directly ahead of him are the bars of the cell, fluorescent lights from the hallway behind them glinting off a metal that matches the other three walls. From where he is, Bucky can’t make out the shape of a door within the bars, and he wonders what kind of technology they have that might make one appear at will.

Bucky flexes his feet, stretching his legs and arm. His body isn’t restrained, but within this 7x7 block, he doubts he needs to be. Hydra clearly knows all they need to about how to confine a radiation infused super soldier.

Fucking Hydra.

Bucky tilts his head back against the metal and lets his eyes drift closed. _Fucking Hydra_. He parses through the last moments of the fight, and feels his heart rate rise. He hopes Natasha was able to get away, get back to SHIELD and alert Coulson and the rest of the team. The image of Wanda, her hair spilling out around her on the dirty asphalt of the alley fills his mind: a broken bird, knocked out, defenseless.

Bucky’s a weapon, a soldier for SHIELD. He’s been a tool before for an oppressive system, a cog in the machine that perpetuated injustice and harm. He’s a former military grunt that’s fallen into a role where, as uncomfortable as it makes him sometimes, he fits. He gets the job done. Though he’s never sat on this side of bars before, he’s put enough people there to be familiar with cells, and he sure as hell knows what it feels like to be trapped.

Wanda, though? Wanda’s just a kid, lost and remade into something she didn’t sign up for, miles away from everything she’s ever known, following the rest of the group like a puppy tagging after the older dogs, not sure about the future, but trusting the rest of them to lead the way. Wanda isn’t hard, isn’t a weapon, and no matter how deadly her powers, she’s an absolutely good person. And she doesn’t deserve to be somewhere like this.

Bucky’s eyes crack open as a series of beeps sounds the distance, tones differing. A keypad.

A moment of silence passes, then footsteps begin to echo down the hallway, four sets. Bucky tracks them as they near, noting the differences in footfalls. One set clomps along, heavier than the rest, booted, loud. Two others falter, stutter step, and adjust their patterns repeatedly, a constant ebb and flow of finding the perfect distance from the final pair, which swishes along smoothly between the boots and the bootlickers.

The guard comes into view first, heavy tac pants matching his boots, which match the scowl slashed across his face. He settles in the corner of the hallway on the far side of Bucky’s cell, at ease, hands resting just above a pair of Glocks along both hips.

The man who appears next, stepping close to the bars is tall and thin, greying hair wispy along the top, but thick enough to stick out over the temples of his wire rimmed glasses where they push behind his ears. He’s dressed in a navy blue cardigan and pressed khakis, and Bucky thinks that if he saw him on the street, he’d assume he was a retired lawyer, or Wall Street banker. The blank expression on his face speaks of a lifetime of repressed emotions, controlled interactions, and a general lack of decency. Behind him two men in lab coats fall in, meekness and fear outlined in the hunch of their shoulders and attention to the first man’s movements.

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes,” the man says, a slick smile drifting onto his face, the faintest hint of a Russian accent resonating in Bucky’s ears. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Barton’s voice chimes in the back of his head ‘ _wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you.’_

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

The man’s smile widens, though it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “A true pleasure. I am Dr. Koslov. I believe you were in my shop today. I heard you quite enjoyed yourself.”

Bucky blinks at him.

Koslov quirks an eyebrow. “No questions for me? That’s disappointing. I imagine that you and I will become quite well-acquainted soon. We’re going to be working very closely together.”

Bucky can’t help it. He snorts. 

“Oh?” Koslov raises both brows this time. “Yes, seeing as you happen to be a successful result of my own research, it is only fitting that you will continue to work with me as we progress towards Hydra’s goals.”

Bucky suddenly realizes he is trapped inside an eighties era manic villain monologue.

“While I can’t say your infection with the radiation in November was intentional, no scientist would get far if they chose not to capitalize on the byproducts of their research, you see.” He winks, an odd juxtaposition with the utter lack of emotion in his eyes. It seems trained, clinical. “And now that you are where you belong, once we have finished finalizing the process, we can begin to adapt you to your final form.”

Bucky tilts his head to the side to encourage his continued sharing of secrets, which this man seems hellbent on divulging to him. If Barton were here, he’d be having a hard time biting his tongue and resisting the urge to call Koslov out on what sounds all together too much like a Pokemon reference. Bucky’s mouth twitches at the thought, and Koslov’s eyes catch the movement, narrowing. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and steps closer to the bars.

He’s still out of reach, if Bucky’s calculated the distance accurately.

“You are going to become an asset to us,” Koslov says. “Hydra will be grateful to have you, you and the witch both. Eventually we will also have the others of your little group, if they play nicely. Though once we have you converted, I’ll be better able to replicate the effects of the radiation in other, new bodies.” He looks Bucky up and down like one might an artifact at an auction. “Don’t worry, as our first, you’ll always be our favorite weapon.”

His mouth twitches upwards, and a sort of glee floods into his eyes. “Imagine how wonderful it is going to be, when your Avengers come to find you, and are met instead with a weapon only wearing the face of their friend. Imagine how quickly they will fall. Imagine how quickly the world will fall to our feet, with you and the witch as our soldiers, impervious and deadly.”

“I won’t. I refuse,” Bucky says, horror at the doctor’s words shaking an unwilling response out of his mouth.

“Refusal.” Koslov hums, tapping at his chin. “A wonderful choice. Unfortunately, you won’t have one by then.”

Barton’s voice appears in his mind again, and gone are the mocking, attitude filled tones, replaced instead by soft words: gentle, real, and cherished. ‘ _Oh, and Bucky? Get the prosthetic, or don’t—it’s your choice. But I hope you remember that if you do, you’ll also get to choose every single day how you use it.’_

Koslov’s sadistic grin reaches its zenith when he catches Bucky’s flinch, and the matching emotion that comes through his eyes sends a wave of uneasy cramps pinching down Bucky’s torso.

“No, by the time we’re done with you, you won’t have a choice. You won’t remember what it’s like to refuse, what it’s like to resist. In fact, if we get it right, which we will, eventually, you won’t remember _you_ , at all,” he says, and Bucky’s blood runs cold, icicles through his veins.

He presses his right hand onto the ground, feels the solid metal beneath him. It’s colder than he is right now. It has to be.

“I won’t be a weapon for you.” Bucky shakes his head, denying the possibility. “I won’t go along with whatever you’re planning. You can’t make me.” He sounds like a child, like a petulant teenager, but maybe teenagers are more honest in their unfiltered patterns of speech. He won’t go along with it. He won’t be used, not again, not without getting to decide for himself. 

“Can’t I?” Koslov asks, looking pleased at Bucky’s sudden desire to respond, a cat with a mouse that’s finally wandered into its trap. “I think you’ll find that we can.” He gestures for the shorter of the two assistants to step forward, snapping his fingers for the tablet in his hands. He taps a few times, then turns the screen to Bucky.

It’s Wanda, pressed up against the corner of a blank cell that looks just like his, knees drawn to her chest, hair loose and wild. The footage isn’t strong, grainy and pixelated, but Bucky can imagine the fear or sadness in her expression; he’s seen it enough at group over the past several months. He’s willing to do a lot to keep it off her face. It’s when he tries to focus on her expression that Bucky feels it: a knot in the back of his mind, pulsing, warm and red.

He prods at it, and there’s a bend, a give, then a feeling of utter relief explodes in his brain.

On the tablet in front of him, Wanda’s figure jerks, one hand coming out to splay against the wall beside her.

Bucky doesn’t know how this works. He doubts Wanda does either; she’s still learning so much. He tries what he’s seen in the movies and channels questions through his mind. ‘ _Are you okay? Do they have you? Are you hurt? Can they get to you?’_

The knot in the back of his mind pulses, a series of complex feelings and lights flashing behind his eyes. Bucky winces, blinking rapidly, and Koslov narrows his eyes, drawing the tablet back from the bars. “We have your precious witch, so I think you do not want to resist too much. From what I have heard, she is much more susceptible to pain than you are.”

Bucky sends the same message deep into his mind. _‘Are you okay? Can you see them? Have they hurt you?’_

The pulses in his brain shift, twisting, and Bucky gasps, bringing his hand to his head. He turns away from the bars, stumbling to lean against the wall. The pulses grow, brighter and brighter, and he sees a flash of a different set of cell bars, then a flash of a red haze, electric and glowing around the bars. Bucky’s mind goes black for a second, and then flares back into brightness as he sees a guard dressed just like the one outside his cell go reeling backwards, hand flying away from the glowing bars, quakes shaking up and down his body. 

The image fades, and all Bucky is left with is a sense of tentative security, tinged with fear.

Bucky shakes his head, opens his eyes, and grins. “You don’t have her controlled at all, do you?”

Koslov’s eyes tighten, and he thrusts the tablet back into his assistants arms.

“You know, I don’t think I will comply,” Bucky says. As long as his compliance isn’t the only thing keeping Wanda safe, there’s no reason for him not to go down swinging.

“Hmm,” Dr. Koslov says, mouth twisting down. “Unfortunate.”

He waves a hand to the side of him and the two assistants trot dutifully to the bars.

“This subject, acquired today April the 16th, hereby referred to as the asset, has a number of radiation modified abilities,” he says drolly, standing with his hands behind his back. One of the assistants scribbles his words down rapidly, fingers flying across the keyboard of the tablet. “Field tests and observations have indicated that one of these abilities is increased healing potential, including but not limited to, well—” he cocks his head, then motions to the guard, beckoning him forward. He turns back to Bucky, eyes flat. “Let’s just see what that includes, shall we?”

The guard’s eyes flick back and forth between Koslov and Bucky. Koslov raises a single eyebrow, and Bucky can hear the guard’s audible gulp. He unclips his glock from his belt, moving towards the bars.

Koslov catches his shoulder. “Not so close, yes?”

The guard nods and steps back, aiming between the bars, just out of Bucky’s reach.

“Wonderful,” Koslov says. “Don’t be excessive now. Gieger, McAllen, proceed as you would any other experiment. We want to learn all about our asset.”

He claps both men on the shoulder and strolls away, footsteps swishing smoothly down the hall until he’s out of sight.

The two assistants step forward, and Bucky notices all of the nerves instantly dissipate from their features as Koslov leaves the room. Afraid of their boss, but not of torturing a one-armed man, sitting caged like a fish in a barrel. Although perhaps that metaphor is more accurate than normal, Bucky thinks; if they see him as an experiment, an asset, like something to be studied and traded and used, then maybe he’s less than fish swimming in circles in a barrel. At least those are alive.

“Aim for his leg, if you would,” the one without the tablet says.

“Upper or lower?” The guard asks as though discussing which cut of meat to get from the deli.

“Dealer’s choice,” the assistant responds with a shrug. “We can try the other option later.”

Bucky can see the guard deliberating, eyes roving over his body, left cheek depressed as he chews on the inside of his mouth. “Let’s start with the thigh, bigger target.”

“Good idea,” the assistant with the tablet says, brushing his swoop of hair out of his eyes as he jots the decision down. “Less likely to cause bone fragmentation that will interfere with clean puncture, more accurate muscle regeneration rate.”

Bucky steels himself, and hopes that whatever they try to make of him, he holds onto more humanity than these people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the places in Brighton Beach were modeled after real places! And the bathroom sign with the gun was [one I saw once](https://noxnthea.tumblr.com/post/642301412623138816/new-chapter-of-choose-every-single-day-posted-with), back in 2015, in Taiwan. It's wild. Also nothing gave me greater joy than writing Tony getting hit with a hacky sack, serves him right for being a sneaky sneak iron man and sneaking up on Clint. Also this note is so positive because I'm ignoring that ending oop. 
> 
> ( _also wtf there are two chapters left omg how did this happen_ )


	9. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey do you remember how impressive Wanda’s powers are? It appears she can do more than just shield people, though that’s pretty useful too, per Bucky and Clint._

When Clint steps off and away from Tony’s suit, stumbling onto the roof of Stark Tower, he feels a little bit like he’s just run a marathon with how his heart is pounding and legs are trembling like jelly.

Tony, on the other hand, steps down from his suit as it unfurls around him like he’s taking a stroll down a motherfucking red carpet. Clint would be a little more upset about the inequity if he wasn’t so focused on feeling like he was about to throw up.

“Let’s go then, Hawkguy.” Tony strides towards the rooftop access door, his suit collapsing at his side in a hypnotic flow, metallic places shifting and compressing together rapidly. “Chop chop.”

Clint glares at him through his lashes, hands on his knees, breathing deep. The wind batters against him, exposed as he is, and the buffets ground him, reminding him of the task at hand.

“Let’s go indeed, assholes,” he says, straightening.

He’s not talking about Tony anymore.

The elevator stops at the floor for Tony’s lab, which Clint’s only ever been in a few times, most recently when picking up a new set of aids before the last mission. Clint’s surprised at the location, at first, before considering that Tony might need access to everything there, and while meeting remotely usually works for everyone, any lag or missed connection is likely to increase tension, which nobody needs today.

Clint follows behind Tony, who’s chattering at JARVIS about pulling up specific projections and data points. He’s got the surprisingly small briefcase the suit had compacted down into in his hand. Clint can’t quite keep up with the technobabble that Tony’s spewing; he’s always done better with visuals. They sweep into the lab, glass doors sliding open to reveal most of the team.

Natasha, Steve and Coulson are standing together around a projection of a map, Natasha’s hand lifting to mark specific points with glowing red dots. Bruce is at a work bench of his own, glancing rapidly back and forth between four different screens, some with text documents, others with images of different mechanisms and chemical compound equations. Director Fury is standing with his arms behind his back, listening to a sharp and focused Maria Hill, his eye impassive, mouth stern.

“I hope none of you touched anything expensive-looking while I was off retrieving our resident Legolas.” Tony claps his hands together as he moves towards an empty workstation. He starts throwing up different projections around him before saying offhandedly, “Or explosive, that would’ve been bad too. Maybe worse. Depends on if Pepper’s the one judging.”

Clint sighs and moves between Steve and Natasha, giving them and Coulson a nod in greeting. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

Natasha gives him a small smile, eyes drifting up to the top of Clint’s head. “Did you get caught in a windstorm, durak?”

Clint blushes and pats at his hair once before writing it off as a lost cause. Windblown hair is the last of his priorities right now. He squares his shoulders and meets Coulson’s gaze. “Hawkeye reporting for duty, sir.”

“Glad to have you here,” Coulson says firmly. “Natasha is detailing their mission from this afternoon, including the capture point and her escape route.”

“What’s our timeline?” Clint asks, eyes roving over the red points Natasha’s placed from Brighton Beach up through Brooklyn and across the East River.

“At this point, we’re nearing three hours since contact,” Coulson tells him, and Clint sees Natasha’s lips tighten momentarily. She probably feels guilty about not being able to escape evil neo-nazis by herself in broad daylight, then get more than halfway across New York City in a shorter amount of time. He flicks her elbow, because she’d probably punch him if their roles were reversed.

“What do we have so far to find them?” Clint asks.

“A location.” Tony jumps into their conversation smugly, speaking loudly enough that Fury and Hill look over to listen. “It might not be a current one, but it’s definitely a location.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, crossing his arms as he turns towards Tony. “Explain.”

“So, I know where—” Tony pauses, brow furrowing before he shrugs and continues. “I know where Barnes’ arm was an hour ago. And yes, I realize that might sound weird.”

“His arm?” Clint asks, and he sees the quickest flash of guilt steal across Tony’s face before vanishing.

“Yes, it’s possible that I installed a tracking device in his prosthetic in his most recent upgrade. And by possible I mean it happened.”

There’s a brief moment of silence that Natasha breaks with a tone that makes her desired answer very clear. “And did Bucky consent to being tracked?”

Tony bites at the corner of his lip, eyes flicking to the ceiling above him. “JARVIS?”

“No, unfortunately, sir, you did not think to ask for Mr. Barnes’ consent before installing the tracking device in his latest cybernetic update,” the AI reprimands. “Although it may be worth mentioning that this was just one of 37 upgrades that you completed within a span of an hour during the update process.”

Tony looks at the group, hopeful expression quelling as he meets Natasha’s stony gaze. “Not okay? Alright, that’s fair. Another point against Stark for being inconsiderate, and something to fix moving forward.”

Steve looks conflicted, clearly torn between reprimanding Stark for infringing on Bucky’s civil freedoms and wanting to latch on to the first piece of information they’ve found.

“Consent, Tony, always,” Natasha grinds out, and Clint hears the ghost of a Natasha in her mid-twenties, rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror back in law school, calculating and vicious in her defense against a sexual offender. “You better get JARVIS up to date on all New York State laws ASAP so he can prevent this in the future.”

“A wonderful idea, Ms. Romanov,” JARVIS says. “In the meantime, is it inappropriate to use the data delivered to us from Mr. Barnes’ prosthetic over the past three hours?”

Natasha sighs, gaze steely. “I am not acting in my legal capacity at the moment, as it would happen.”

“Then let’s get that location up,” Coulson says, and Tony throws it to the center of the room.

“Is that New Jersey?” Clint asks, studying the map. The glowing point is in what looks like a shipyard along the coastline, fixed and immobile.

“That’s New Jersey,” Steve confirms with a glare. “Goddamn Jersey.”

Coulson turns to Tony. “You said this was the location an hour ago?”

Tony nods, then zooms the map out to show a path extending back into New York. He waves his hand to pull the projection that Natasha and Steve had been looking at in line with his, and the two connect, highlighting the route that Hydra had most likely taken Bucky and Wanda along. “I doubt he’s still there, for a few reasons. First, JARVIS’ scans don’t show anything that would support a full Hydra base within a mile of this location, and I doubt they have a whole set up in shipping containers, that’s just tacky, even for Hydra. Second, it’s possible that the arm was detached.” Clint feels his belly squirm, even though he knows taking off the prosthetic is a painless process.

“Third,” Tony continues, snapping his fingers in the air, “my bets are they had a faraday cage waiting for them, or something like that. Hydra’s too paranoid to not think we had something in there that they don’t want us to have access to from afar.”

Coulson tilts his head, shifting gears. “Director, do we have authority to access the cartographic intel gathered from the Avenger’s most recent mission?”

Fury and Hill exchange a glance, before Fury nods. “Our technical analysis teams were able to uncover a file in those taken from your mission that contained encrypted locations for several Hydra bases within the United States. We don’t know if it’s a conclusive list, yet, and have only managed to decrypt some of the coordinates, as each is encoded differently.”

“Can I have it?” Tony asks eagerly, both hands extended in a ‘ _gimme’_ gesture. “Come on, Fury, you should’ve given that to me and JARVIS the second you found it.”

Fury’s face twitches, and Clint really wishes he’d been there when the two first met. Eventually he nods and pulls out his phone to upload the file to JARVIS’ cloud.

“Don’t worry about this, guys,” Tony says, hands moving rapidly along a keyboard in his workstation. “Once J gets these locations, we can cross analyze CCTV footage in each of the areas with the footage from the body cams. Hell, we can start doing that now, starting at the shipyard in New Jersey.” He dives into his work, pulling up three separate video screens. Clint can see the footage speeding past a mile a minute, red frames popping up each time a new face appears. Behind him, JARVIS is simultaneously running a decryption process, numbers and letters whizzing along like the world’s fastest slot machine.

“I think they’re planning on harnessing, or studying the radiation present in Bucky and Wanda to create more enhanced individuals,” Bruce remarks from across the room. “And I keep finding mentions of utilizing assets as soldiers. There’s several earmarked experiments notated with compliance and suggestibility trials, some going back all the way to the late eighties with Koslov indicated as the lead researcher.”

He pulls up one of the screenshots they’d taken from Natasha’s body cam in the lab in the bunker, showing a heavy leather chair with various mechanical apparatuses hooked up to it. “This appears frequently. I believe it’s a part of something to induce compliance and the following of orders.”

The word compliance twists around in Clint’s mind, sinister. He thinks of the teachers whose greatest wish for their students is that they would be compliant, regardless of how compliance squashes individuality and creative thinking. He thinks of his father and a leather belt in hand the moment he or Barney stepped out of line. “Do you mean brainwashing?”

Bruce grimaces at the phrase, then nods, his eyes pinching. “Essentially, yes.”

“You mean to tell us,” Steve says, his voice shaking, “they have Bucky and Wanda, and are planning on stealing their DNA and turning them into brainwashed, braindead soldiers for Hydra?”

“I could be wrong,” Bruce offers. “I’ve only had these files for two days.”

“But you don’t think you are,” Natasha says, voice low and displaying none of the panic that is beginning to build in Clint’s chest.

Bruce shrugs unhappily.

“They want to turn him into a weapon,” Clint whispers as his mind flicks through everything he knows about Bucky Barnes, replaying conversations and confessions, recalling the guilt, the turmoil, and the resolution to improve. He shakes his head. “This’ll destroy him.”

Steve looks like he’s been struck.

Clint looks at Coulson, and wonders what he thinks about how fucked up most of his team is. Fury is as controlled as ever, his composure staying the same as he processes this new information. Clint wonders if Fury’s ever referred to the Avengers as assets, pawn pieces in his game for global security.

“The coordinates have been processed,” JARVIS says, breaking through Clint’s cynical thoughts.

“How many within a 300 mile radius?” Coulson asks, accounting for air travel and the timeline.

“Only three,” JARVIS responds, and three yellow dots illuminate on the holographic map. There’s one buried deep in a warehouse district in Newark, another in D.C, a third just across the border in Maine. “Sir?”

“Got it.” The holographs in front of Tony flicker, adapting to the new parameters. “Now cross referencing footage for the past hour in those areas and the last known location of the arm.”

Clint doesn’t know what he should do at this point. He feels useless, unmoored, eager for action but lacking direction. Somewhere out there, Bucky and Wanda are being held against their will, possibly being experimented on. Wanda, with her tentative smile and desire for acceptance, her kindness and her trust which she’s just beginning to find again. A little sister, if Clint’s being honest. He’d never known he wanted one of those.

And Bucky. Bucky, who is beautiful and caring, downtrodden and disillusioned about his own worth in the world. Bucky, who can almost match Clint shot for shot down in the range, who makes him laugh over the comms on missions, who makes Clint feel like he’s not such a fuck-up all the time. Bucky, who’d reached out to him when he fled group therapy, offering to meet up with him outside of work. Bucky, who Clint is slowly realizing means a lot more to him than he’d thought.

He thinks of Bucky’s smile, so rare, and the way he’d allowed Clint to squeeze his metal hand before their disastrous mission. He thinks of the time they’ve spent lately in the range, how Bucky chooses to spend time with him. He thinks of the jokes Bucky made the day they were partnered up to go undercover together, how loving Bucky’d been towards Lucky, even as the dog got snow slush all over him. He thinks of how until he yelled at Clint in the med bay, he had never made Clint feel useless or unwanted, and he’d clearly had shit of his own going on that day. No, Bucky’s made Clint feel the opposite of unwanted.

And that’s, well, that’s really something, isn’t it?

Clint chuckles, looking down at the ground as though it might have all of the answers as to why Clint Barton is a failure of a human being. Trust him to realize he’s got real feelings for a guy that just might be reciprocated when he has absolutely no way to do anything about it, when there’s a chance he never will.

Next to him, Steve tightens his fingers on his biceps, and the movement draws Clint’s eyes. Clint sighs, and Steve looks at him with his eyebrows raised in question.

“We’re gonna get him, I mean—them, back, right?”

There’s a faint bit of humor in Steve’s eyes that shifts into his otherwise somber and resolute expression, telling Clint that he caught the slip, and knows exactly what Clint’s about. “We will. We have to.”

“Got it! Got it, got it,” Tony yells, and everyone turns to him. “I’ve got three identical vans at the shipping containers two minutes after the last signal from the arm, then those same vans outside the Newark location 32 minutes ago. And, the deal sealer is, at the Newark location I also have visual confirmation of two of the goons that nabbed Barnes and Maximoff off the streets.”

Coulson nods. “That’s sufficient. Hill, how many teams can we mobilize within the next two hours?”

Maria glances at Fury before responding. “Yours, and three others. I need to return to headquarters to begin the dispatch.”

“I’ll be there as well,” Fury says. “Keep us informed.”

They stride together towards the elevator, Fury’s black coat billowing out behind him.

“Well, team?” Coulson asks, looking around at each of them. “Are you ready to plan your first rescue mission?”

Natasha nods tersely from where she’s standing behind Bruce’s shoulder, who looks like he might just be willing to pull a Code Green on this mission. Steve is standing tall in the center of the room, jaw tight, hands tense and ready for his shield. Tony’s already away from his work station, fiddling with a piece of red and gold metal that must be from his suit.

Clint thinks he’s never felt more sure of something in his life. “You know, this might be the first time it’s accurate to call us the Avengers,” he says, and the smile he puts on might be just a little bit vicious.

* * *

Bucky’s lying on the floor of his cell, right thigh screaming in agony, listening to the hushed murmurs of the assistants at the bars as they discuss the speed at which he fell, whether they can see the wound closing, how long they should wait before adding another injury, whether too soon would jeopardize the accuracy of the results of the first, when it hits him.

He’s more human than these Hydra fucks will ever be.

He extends his leg and pain shoots up through his hip, down through his shin. It’s real, it’s grounding, it’s human.

The metal cap of his left shoulder clinks against the floor of the cell: pleasant, musical, familiar.

Entirely his.

His arm getting blown off in an ill-timed, unjust, immoral accident was something that happened _to_ him, but he’s gotten to choose every single step along the way how he dealt with the repercussions. He chose to turn his back on the Army after his discharge. He chose to sign up for therapy. He chose to join SHIELD. He chose to train every day. He chose to let Stark make the prosthetic for him.

He chooses every single day who he wants to be.

And he knows now, he thinks while staring upwards at the bright lights from the hallway, eyes squinting from the pain and the glare, he knows now who he wants to be.

He wants to be someone who doesn’t let his past define his present. He wants to be someone who recognizes that they did some fucked up shit before, but who knows that they can spend every day making it right, and that just because they’ve made mistakes doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some fucking happiness along the way, too. He wants to be someone who makes a conscious decision each time they do something that affects others.

He might choose to be a weapon, sometimes.

But he won’t be Hydra’s weapon, ever.

He rolls onto his side, letting his hair fall forward to cover his face, hiding the irrepressible smile that’s growing there.

Now, he just needs to figure out a plan. He lets his mind drift, searching for that pulse of warmth that means Wanda.

* * *

When Tony walks out onto the roof in his robot suit, Coulson rolls his eyes, but gestures him into the Quinjet anyways.

“If you’re going to be here, you might as well be a part of the planning process,” he says, ducking under the overhang. Tony clanks along behind him, and Clint watches as Steve turns from his place at the front of the Quinjet where he’s been conversing with Agent May, his jaw dropping open. Even Natasha betrays her surprise, hand shifting her grip on the gear bag she’d just taken out of the locker. Clint rolls his eyes at Tony’s need to make an entrance.

“Yeah,” Tony says, cocking his hip out, resting his metal helmet against it, “I’m not gonna sit this one out. Coulson says I get to come and play.”

Steve snaps his jaw shut, eyebrows coming down indignantly. “This isn’t a game, Tony, and no matter what Coulson says, I’m not going to have someone on my team who treats this like that.” He cuts his eyes to Coulson, who shrugs.

Tony looks askance for a moment, then nods, wilting slightly. “Don’t worry, Cap, I can be serious when I need to be.”

Steve nods, then taps Agent May on the shoulder. “We’re good to go.”

They’re outfitted in their full body armor, and Clint shifts in his seat as the engines fire, tapping his feet against the floor. His quivers are full, both strapped in their respective places along his body. He’s also got a gun strapped to the thigh without his quiver, a SIG P320 that’ll be backup if he runs out of arrows. The quiver on his back has been modified to include a pouch for the other gear he’ll need, housing lock picks and a variety of other tools he may have first learned to use in slightly less noble circumstances.

He’s got two parts in this mission. He’ll start by covering Nat from a neighboring deserted apartment complex as she sneaks in to disable the system, then head in on his own to reach where they think the cells most likely are, based on a structural analysis JARVIS had been able to perform of the building and its not-exactly-standard-warehouse subterranean levels. Steve will be running interference with the SHIELD teams, bombarding the main entrance. Bruce is currently planning on waiting as the Hulk by the back entrance to prevent as many people from leaving as possible, having gotten the all-clear from JARVIS that the majority of the surrounding warehouses were abandoned, and those that weren’t were unlikely to be manned overnight. And Tony, well, Tony was supposed to be running tech and the control room once Nat got in, but with his new suit…

“Hey Tony,” Clint calls, “you still doing tech for us, or does C-3PO over there do more than fly and look pretty?”

Stark glares at him, then puts his helmet on so that he can dramatically pop open the faceplate and continue glaring. “I am a literal genius, Hawkguy; I am capable of multitasking.” He looks at Steve and Coulson, expression mellowing slightly in recognition that it might’ve been a good idea to let the leaders of the expedition know about his suit ahead of time. “I was thinking air support, if you need someone out quickly, and I’ve also got repulsors.”

“Repulsors,” Steve echos back.

“Yeah,” Tony says, and lifts his hand. There’s a whine that sends shivers down Clint’s spine as he remembers the plummet of his stomach when Tony took off from Brooklyn, and a blue light glows in the center of Tony’s palm. 

“Is it really a good id—“ Steve starts to ask, and Nat lunges into the gear locker to her left, grabbing a duffle filled with clothes, throwing it into the center of the confined space just as a jet of white-blue energy shoots away from the Ironman suit. The blast and the duffle make contact, and there’s a micro explosion as the duffle is torn at the seams, a burning hole blazing through the center. The blast continues through it, slamming against the wall of the Quinjet.

From this distance, Clint can just see the Hudson through the baseball sized, smoking hole in the wall.

Even with his faulty ears, Clint can hear Tony’s gulp over the hum of the engines. 

Steve throws his hands up in the air, head shaking in exasperation. “Repulsors, he says. And gives no warning before discharging an explosion _inside a flying jet._ ”

“It’s not an explosion, it’s more—” Tony starts to say, quelling at the glares leveled on him by both Steve and Coulson. “Alrighty, next time I’ll wait until after I leave the jet to blow you all away. So as to avoid the walls being blown away at the same time.”

Oh, so that’s what Natasha’s _don’t-ask-me-how-I-know-this-idiot_ face looks like when it isn’t directed at Clint.

Steve bends down to mark up the blueprint, narrating his additions as his hand moves in choppy motions. “Ironman. Air support. _Repulsors_.” He looks up at Tony, pointing a pencil at him threateningly. “You’ll stay near Bruce unless otherwise requested.”

From the corner of his eyes, Natasha waves her hand to get Clint’s attention. She settles into the seat across from him, an eerie echo of their positions from the flight home on the last mission.

 _[How are you?]_

_[Fine]_ he signs, then adds _, [Not planning on getting hurt this time.]_

 _[Good. How are your injuries?]_ she asks, then points at her own ribs.

He tilts his hand from side to side. _[So-so. Not bad, it won’t interfere.]_

 _[How’s your head?]_ she points at her head then pinches both shoulders with her hands and pulling away.

 _[My mental health is fine]_ he signs, then adds at her disbelieving expression, _[Better than before. I told you on the phone, I know I’m worth taking care of. I’m going to help because I care]._

Nat’s eyes sharpen at his sign choice for caring, as he adds fists crossed at the top of his chest, tapping twice. She repeats the gesture back at him, then makes the sign for Winter.

Clint shrugs and lets a small smile drift across his face. _[I think there might be something there]._

Nat smiles back at him. _[Good. It’s been a long time since you let anyone but me in. And Winter is alright, I guess. At the very least he’ll help me yell at you when you get hurt. Or,]_ and her expression grows teasingly contemplative _, [maybe he will help keep you from getting hurt. He has no patience for idiots]._

_[I resent that.]_

_[You can’t tell me that I’m wrong.]_

Clint narrows his eyes at her before rolling them and shrugging his shoulders again. Nat really does know him too well.

“We’re a minute out,” Steve says, strapping his shield on his back. Clint gets Steve’s whole boycott of guns until better gun restrictions are in place, but man, it’s really hard to wrap his mind around being willing to walk into a gunfight with a fucking metal disk as your only weapon. Even if it is a super fancy metal disk. “Comms check.”

Clint flicks the button that turns the comms on in his hearing aids.

“Widow ready,” Nat begins, eyes still teasing Clint across the way.

“Hawkeye is a go,” Clint says, adjusting the quiver on his back.

“Banner ready, Hulk in waiting,” Bruce says from the cockpit.

“Cap ready.” Steve shakes his shoulders out and steps towards the rear hatch, swinging his shield up and over his shoulders.

“Winter, we’re coming,” Tony chirps.

* * *

The scientists, when they open the door to his cell, are cocky. The scribe, tablet tucked casually under his arm, elbow pinched tight, looks back at his partner over his shoulder as he moves towards Bucky, hefting him up by the arm.

“Oof,” he exhales, legs straining. “This asset is heavy. Hey, Johnson, can I get a hand over here?”

The guard moves forward, stepping into the cell to Bucky’s left side. “On three?” he asks.

Koslov’s assistant nods.

“Be grateful he doesn’t still have that arm attached,” the other assistant notes, holding the cell door open for them as they move Bucky through, an awkward, blocky walk. Bucky’s being compliant, but he can’t quite resist making this process as uncomfortable as possible.

The bullet wound in Bucky’s thigh aches as his foot drags along the ground. He lets it dip too far, catches it on the front of the guard’s right leg, causing the gangly trio to stumble. He extends his leg fully to catch himself, a test. Yeah, he’ll be able to run on it.

“This fucker,” the guard grumbles, and slaps Bucky across the face. Bucky lets himself flinch while easing the muscles around his eyes, drawing his brows together in fear, urging the corners of his mouth down.

“Oh, shit,” the assistant on his right says, the tablet slipping out from under his arm to tumble to the floor. “Hey, Geiger, can you grab that?”

“Sure,” his partner answers, pausing and turning back from where he’d been leading them down the hallway. He leans over, plucking the tablet off the ground, face an inch away from Bucky’s knees. “Here, I’ll carry this for you.”

They continue down the hall and have to stop when they get to the door where Bucky’d heard the tones of a keypad being entered before. He watches as Geiger enters the code through hooded eyes, rolling his head to the side to emphasize his limp, compliant state.

“This was a good idea,” the assistant under his arm, McAllen, says, jostling him. “We’ll be able to get much better results inside the controlled environment of the lab.”

“Don’t know what Koslov was so worried about,” Geiger agrees as they step through the doorway. “Don’t know why he’s so excited about this asset, either. If one bullet wound is enough to be this debilitating, I can’t imagine he’ll be good for what they want him for in the field.”

“No need to question what the guys upstairs want,” his partner responds, shifting to adjust Bucky higher on top of his shoulder. “We’re paid to run the numbers and conduct the tests. Let’s stick to that, leave the field work to the people who get paid to worry about if it’s worth it or not.”

Bucky hears a set of footsteps approaching down the hallway and fixes his mind on them. ‘ _Another guard’,_ he says into his mind, feeling Wanda’s warm presence turn towards it. He keeps his eyes locked onto the end of the corridor where the footsteps are approaching from so that he can get a visual as soon as the guard rounds the corner. The man’s boot appears first, and as his body enters Bucky’s frame of vision, he forces the image to populate in his mind, piece by piece.

_‘Guard, all black tac suit, light hair, light skin, two SIGs, broad nose, wide eyes.’_

The red warmth focuses, pulsing, extending around the fourth person.

“Are you supposed to have the asset out?” the new guard asks, expression confused as Wanda’s sensations of confidence, complacency, and calm battle with his natural instincts and whatever orders he has about Bucky being a threat that must be contained at all times.

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal,” McAllen says, patting the guard in the center of the chest as they cross paths. “We’re just taking him to the lab for testing. Guy’s a puppy.”

Bucky can see the new guard’s countenance change as Wanda’s magic takes over, eyebrows easing, a smirk appearing. “And here we were all told to be worried about him. Have fun.”

He lets the pair carrying Bucky between them pass, then continues on his way, whistling faintly.

 _‘That was the best one yet’,_ Bucky thinks, tilting his head back over his shoulder so that he can send Wanda a slightly sideways mental image of the guard’s nonchalance. He feels her response in the way the red glow thrums with amusement in the back of his brain, and fights the smile that wants to work its way onto his face.

They arrive at the lab a few minutes later, the guard and assistant pushing him into an oversized, reclining chair that looks like something from a dentist’s office. They don’t even bother to attach the restraints dangling off the side of the chair arms, McAllen stepping to the side with his hands against his lower back, stretching with a groan. The guard rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck and wringing out his hands.

“Get over here, you lazy asshole,” Geiger says, stepping up to a bay of computers, hooking the tablet up to them with a white cord.

“You try stumbling around with 200 pounds of Hydra weaponry on your back,” his partner grumbles, though he does make his way over to the same side of the room, standing with his back to the dentist’s chair to mess with something along the wall.

Bucky can’t keep the groan back. This will be too easy.

“What a wimp,” the guard says idly, flicking through various items on the small table next to Bucky’s chair. He holds up two scalpels of different sizes. “Oh, are we going to use these next?”

“Maybe,” Geiger says dismissively, typing away on the keyboard. “Put them down for now. We’ll be using the tools, not you.”

Bucky watches the guard frown as he puts them down, murmuring under his breath, “Fucking scientist assholes.”

He turns to head for the door, and Bucky reaches out, palming the smaller of the scalpels, bringing his hand back to his side quickly. His head lolls down across his shoulder, and he uses the motion to cover his rapid scanning of the room. Some of the same machines are here that were in the lab at the bunker: there’s another iteration of the sarcophagus meets MRI machine in burnished steel, hooked up to an ominous glass vat of sickly green liquid. He’s in the only dentist’s chair, but to his right are tables that could, and probably have, fit human bodies, if the dried, dark red-brown stains on the floor underneath them are what he suspects. Bucky wonders at the stains, and the frequency with which this lab must be used; usually, science types like to keep experiments separate from each other, so their lack of care to clean their equipment and work area suggest several unpalatable options.

Bucky rolls his head to this other side, emitting another groan for good measure. The two scientists don’t look up, each typing away quickly at their respective screens. His eyes trace the shelves along the wall, skipping quickly over various glass containers filled with fleshy objects, each painstakingly labeled and organized.

It’s in the corner that he finds his prosthetic, limp metallic hand tipped off the edge of the top of a filing cabinet. _Bingo_ , Bucky thinks, then tries to disguise the snort he makes at the old-fashioned saying as something pain-related. No-one notices anyway, all three Hydra members lulled into a false sense of security.

 _‘Starting now’_ , he thinks pointedly towards the Wanda shaped space in his brain, and takes a deep breath in.

He flings the scalpel towards the guard, who’s studying the floor with his arms crossed, and does his best to channel Hawkeye.

* * *

The first sentry falls quickly, listing sideways away from the chain link fence, crumpling to the ground with a sigh.

The next two on the other side of the perimeter, mid-conversation, guns held casually at their sides, slump down just as fast. The second of the pair has just enough time for his eyes to widen in comprehension before an arrow sprouts from where his uniform meets his neck.

Nat slips through the gate a second later.

Clint surveils the area, pavement of the empty parking lot barren and bright under harsh street lamps. There’s a flicker of movement around the corner, and he whips in that direction, knocking, drawing, and releasing in the space it takes half of the guard’s body to round the building.

Nat’s to the wall now, and Clint watches her swing her arms, then leap to grab hold of the rusted ladder hanging just out of arm’s reach.

“Status,” Steve asks over the comms, quiet and terse.

“Air ducts in 20 seconds,” Nat reports, one arm over the other as she climbs upwards.

Clint starts to move towards the pair of sentries, stealing silently across the ground. Tufts of grass press beneath his feet, springing back up from cracks in a sidewalk seldom used as he passes, stragglers in the middle of this concrete deathtrap.

“Banner outside rear entrance,” Bruce answers. “Hulk is probably near ready whenever we see movement.”

“I’m here, too,” Tony says, “In case Hulkie boy needs any encouragement.” Which is valid, Clint thinks; Tony could annoy just about anyone into an angry explosion.

“Skylight is open, Widow is going in,” Nat says a moment later. Clint clocks her at 18 seconds. He feels oddly proud of her actions, as though his proclivity and success in using the air ducts inspired her part of the mission tonight.

Clint slips through the chain link fence, delicately side-stepping the bodies of the Hydra sentries. The window he’s approaching is on the east side of the warehouse on the first floor.

“Hawkeye, when you reach your entrance, give me two, then Cap and STRIKE are going in,” Steve says, steady and calm. He’s waiting with the three teams from SHIELD, ready to draw attention away from Nat and Clint’s entrance.

Clint makes it to the side of the building next to his target window, flattening himself against the wall. He glances inside, and when he doesn’t see anything of note, throws his elbow back into the glass, shattering it. Pieces fall around him, tinkling as they hit the ground. He uses his bow to quickly knock out the rest of the remaining glasses, then hoists himself over the lip of the window, thankful for the gloves protecting his palms. Nat had needed to remind him to put them on.

“Hawkeye is in,” he says, dropping low to the ground. “Cap, two minutes now.”

“Confirmed,” Steve says. “STRIKE in position.”

Clint pulls his bow up as he begins to jog down the hallway towards where JARVIS detected a stairwell leading down under the warehouse. Dim lights illuminate the main floor of the building from the ceiling miles above, only two in every row turned on at this time of night. Tall storage shelves lean high into the air, some stacked tall with boxes and pallets of items. In another life, this would’ve made for a good regional Amazon packing center; now it’s the set of a scary as hell horror movie that Clint would really prefer none of his team be the victim in. Clint wonders if Hydra uses the area for storage, or if everything still here is just a front.

“About to enter the control room,” Nat whispers, and Clint jerks his bow slightly at the noise. She’d entered from the roof of the warehouse, traveling down through the second floor of offices, passed the main storage floor, and was now on the first underground level. There’s a click over the comms, then Clint hears the telltale noises of Natasha landing on someone’s shoulders: a _whoosh_ of air, a sharp cry, then gurgles and slaps as the man in the control room tries in vain to unhook her thighs from around his throat.

Clint hasn’t enjoyed being the testing dummy for that one.

There’s movement on his left down an aisle—Clint turns and releases the arrow he’d knocked in an instant; a man in all black stumbles once, then trips over the corner of a shipping box, falling flat.

“First contact made inside, one guard down, close to stairs leading to cells,” Clint informs the team, a second before Nat says, “Control room in hand, inputting Stark tech now.”

“Confirmed,” Steve says. “Cap and STRIKE are going in.”

Gun fire erupts from the front of the building as the teams move in for a frontal assault, hopefully drawing the attention of as many Hydra operatives as possible.

Three seconds later, it works. The door to the stairs Clint had been heading towards flies open, guards pouring out in a stream. Clint crouches behind a shelf as they move forward in front of him. “Hydra on the way, Cap.”

“Perfect.” Steve’s voice is chilling.

Clint waits patiently, tense and focused as the Hydra crew continues to flow past him, an arrow still knocked to his lowered bow. He’s been practicing his raise and release.

“Widow is in the system,” Nat says. “All doors are open. Heading out to the labs.”

The flow of guards begins to thin, and Clint starts to stand, ready to move in, when another group of people come rushing up. There are few people dressed in lab coats, clutching notebooks to their chest as they rush out of the door. Clint hides behind the shelf again, letting them pass, even as his fingers twitch to fire.

“Should we have helped the asset team?” One asks another as they sprint towards the back exit.

“Couldn’t pay me enough,” the woman responds. “Besides, I don’t want to be where that asset is. I’ve seen the schematics and there’s no way Koslov’s team would be able to put him under yet. In an emergency, the asset like this would be lethal, and not lethal in the way we want it to be.”

Clint watches them as they dash past, and contemplates shooting all three in the back as they run. Instead, he radios in. “Hulk ready? We’ve got some fleeing science dudes incoming.”

“I’m trying,” Bruce says, voice strained. “Can’t quite, can’t quite get mad enough.”

“Oh, come on,” Tony says exasperatedly. “You spend all week pissed at me because I corrected your math on Tuesday and you can’t get upset enough when you need to be? I steal your precious meditation tea, which tastes like shit by the way, and you ignore me for the day. There’s some evil ass motherfuckers about to come outside, you need to angry the fuck up.”

“Annoyance is not what I’m going for,” Bruce says. “Try shooting me instead. Hulk doesn’t like that.”

There’s silence for a second.

“They’re about to reach the door,” Clint remarks.

“Well, alright,” Tony says with a degree of eagerness that Clint should probably find disconcerting. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

There’s a blast, then a resounding, unearthly roar rips its way through the warehouse.

Clint takes that as his signal to head down the stairs.

* * *

Bucky’s in the middle of reattaching his prosthetic when the door to the lab swings open again. Koslov’s two assistants are sprawled out on the ground, Geiger still behind the computer bay where Bucky’d shot him after following the scalpel in its journey through the air, grabbing a Glock directly out of one of the guard’s holsters, firing one quick shot into his chest and spinning to let another fly at the scientists. McAllen had ducked with a yelp, managing to avoid Bucky’s third, fourth and fifth shots. The sixth one had gotten him in the neck as he attempted to crawl between the computers and one of the operating tables.

The door starts to open, but gets stuck halfway as it comes into contact with the guard’s body.

“What in the…” a woman’s voice says, then Bucky hears a heavy exhale as she shoulders the door open. He frantically screws in the last few of the bolts, flips the neural transmission electronic access switch located where the prosthetic met the port in his shoulder. The plates in his arm begin to whir and hum, rippling downwards as connections reestablish.

“Geiger, McAllen, everything okay in here? I didn’t realize you had so much firearm activity planned for the asset,” the woman begins as she steps into the room, eyes on a clipboard in front of her.

The final recalibration mechanism engages in his shoulder and Bucky flexes his metal fist, expands his fingers once, and watches from the corner as the woman slowly notices the mayhem around her.

It’s the older scientist from the bunker. Gray-haired, severe, and decidedly not where she should be in SHIELD lock up.

Bucky feels a low burn run its way up from his chest and down his arms until he’s shaking with it.

The room is echoing with the reverberations of another shot before he even realizes he’d raised the gun in his hand. He stalks over to the woman’s corpse, stands above her, stares. She shouldn’t _be_ here. He quickly flicks his eyes to the door; is the other scientist from the bunker here, too? No-one enters, and Bucky finds his brain misfiring, unable to connect. How did she get here? It’s only been three days, which seems excessively fast for SHIELD to have released this woman if she’d pleaded coercion, and is equally too fast for Hydra to have been able to orchestrate a rescue mission. What had happened to the scientists when they’d gotten back to SHIELD? Bucky’d been too in his head about his arm to pay attention as Nat, Steve and Coulson had made plans, but this, this shouldn’t be— _She shouldn’t be here._

Bucky feels a questioning thrum in the back of his mind, and shakes his head to clear it. He’s gotta get out of here before more people come in response to the noise. He needs to get to Wanda, get them both out of this place. Get them out, and get them somewhere safe.

He dares one last look at the woman on the ground, gray hair stained red, and feels his eyebrows press together. Somewhere safe, indeed.

Bucky grabs the guard’s second Glock and slips the man’s utility belt around his own hips before stepping out into the hallway. His leg hurts, pain radiating upwards with each step, but it’s nothing debilitating, and it’ll heal. It always does.

_‘Can you feel where I am?’_

Wanda’s red pulse sends back something that feels like a negative, so Bucky follows the lights overhead back in the direction he’d come from. He figures they were likely kept in the same general block, if this base follows a similar format to the bunker.

He makes a few wrong turns, but before long he’s in another hallway that looks similar to his, high ceilings metallic, cell bars jutting out on opposite sides. There’s no guards, but Bucky takes his time walking the length of the corridor, Glock unholstered and safety off.

He swings in front of the first cell with the gun raised, and she’s there.

“Hey there, Wanda,” he says, gun falling to his side. He wraps his other hand around the bars, and he feels a slight tingle that dissipates quickly. She’s seated in the corner of the cell, arms wrapped tight about herself. “You ready to blow this joint?”

The relief in Wanda’s eyes is palpable as she stands and walks to the bars. She raises her hand, wraps it around his around the bar. “Very ready.”

She looks up and down his body, then at their joined hands. “You feel…settled. Calm?”

Bucky feels a faint smile twitch at his lips. “‘Course I do. I’ve got you back, and we’re getting out of here.”

Wanda looks pointedly at the still locked cell door. “Not quite out yet. And that’s not all, is it?There’s more to your emotions than that.”

Bucky releases the bar and shoots three quick rounds at where he’d identified the weakest point of the door. He leans over, and pulls at it. The metal shifts, shrieking, but it’s no match for Stark’s vibranium-enforced mechanics. The door rends apart from the rest of the bars, bowing out to create enough space for her to slide through.

Wanda turns her body to the side, and Bucky offers her his hand to help pull her through. She shuffles her feet and places her hand on his shoulder, eyes searching his, a smile lighting her face. “What else is it, Bucky?”

“This is what I’m supposed to be doing, I think.” He glances away from her too-knowing gaze. “I’m choosing to do this, and being here, protecting you, putting down Hydra…it’s where I’m supposed to be.”

Wanda opens her mouth to reply, when they hear an onslaught of gunfire up above them. She snaps her mouth closed, and they both turn their heads to the side, listening.

“Do you think—” Wanda starts to ask.

“Sounds like the team’s arrived,” Bucky says at the same time.

Wanda snorts, and even Bucky can’t contain the spread of a genuine smile across his face as a complicated mix of joy, contentment, and _of course they came, you idiot_ surges in his chest.

At Wanda’s quirked eyebrow, Bucky nods, and they turn as one to go and join their team.

* * *

Three more Hydra operatives fall before Clint makes it to the floor with the holding cells.

Two were in the stairwell on their way up to meet the battle raging at either side of the warehouse entry points, all charging up and eager before Clint’s arrows caught them in the chest and neck.

The third was halfway down an empty hall, metallic and echoing, standing with his gun ready and raised. He’d gotten a shot off at Clint that Clint’d not quite been able to avoid, stepping out of the stairwell a little too quickly. He’d reacted at the noise just enough, though, so now there’s a mirror graze to match his other on the opposite side of his torso.

At least the arrow he’d released at the same time had met its target, blood silently spilling out around the guard now lying flat in the center of the hallway.

Clint stalks towards the body, grumbling. Nat won’t be happy with him, and really, he had been trying to be careful. He yanks the arrow out of the man’s chest, wipes it once against his thigh before sticking it back in the quiver over his back. “Nat’s not going to be happy with me,” he tells the man, whose twitching has just stilled. “And I’m gonna go ahead and blame you, if you don’t mind.”

Further down the hallway is one of the holding cells. He takes an arrow out, walking tentatively towards where he can see what looks like bars along the left side of the wall. In a single movement, he steps in front of them, bowstring drawn tight to his ear.

There’s no-one there.

“Shit,” Clint says in a flat exhale. If they’re not in the holding cells, this whole barrage might be in vain. They can’t have been completely wrong, can they? If they’re not here, if Bucky’s not—he inhales, sharp, and shakes his head. He can’t lose it, not yet. “Hawkeye at holding, first of three empty. No Scarlet or Winter.”

He begins moving forward even as Steve starts to answer over the comms. He ignores it, running quickly to the next cell.

It’s empty too.

Heart beating loudly enough that he can hear it, feel it at the edge of his fingertips and high in his throat, Clint swings open the door to the second hallway, keypad glowing a light green. The door pushes back easier than he’d expected, heavy metal clanging against the wall behind it. No other sound comes from the end of the hallway.

“Shit, fuck,” Clint whispers, and jogs down to the final cell.

There’s nothing but a puddle of blood, swelling dark and crimson in the glare of the fluorescent lights.

“All holding cells empty,” Clint says faintly. His bow is lowered at his side, and some part of his brain is yelling at him to get it up, but there’s an overwhelming buzz that’s distracting him from heeding that logic.

There’s a surge of noise in his ears, a cacophony that’s competing with the clamor of guilt and despair and fear inside because Clint can’t have let them down, he can’t, he can’t, not Wanda, not Bucky. The lights overhead pulse and throb in front of his eyes. The puddle of blood inside the cell is unmoving, but it glistens, mocking, taunting, and—

“Clint!” Nat’s voice is there under the din, smooth, steady, familiar. “Clint. Go to the warehouse level. There’s evidence of a struggle in the labs.”

Clint sucks in a breath he didn’t realize he’d been missing. The fingers of his right hand unclench from his bow one at a time, resettling, reestablishing ground. The fingers of his left hand release from their grip of the cell bar all at once; blood surges back into his knuckles, flushing them pink. He takes a step back.

“Hawkeye heading up to the warehouse.”

He jogs back down the hall, gaining speed as he goes. He mentally chides himself, tries imagining what his friends would say.

_“Get out of your head, durak.” Natasha flicks him in the side._

_Steve furrows his brow. “Focus on one step at a time. That’s all we can do.”_

_Sam is as calm as ever, validating Clint’s experience while simultaneously helping him see a way out of his fears. “You can only control your own actions, and every single action you took was one you can be proud of, right?”_

_“You’re just being dramatic again, Mr. B. You don’t know anything for sure and you’re already telling yourself it’s your fault?” Peter rolls his eyes._

_“I’m proud of you.” Wanda takes his hand, leaning her shoulder against his. “You’ve come so far.”_

_“You’re choosing to be here. You can choose to cut yourself some slack, too.” Bucky’s voice is soft, considerate, teasing in the way that lets Clint know they’re all in on the secret; they’re all here to help each other through this. “Take your own advice for once.”_

Clint smiles.

He’s out of the stairwell and onto the warehouse floor, two arrows already flying through the air towards their targets when a bloom of red magic billows past him, the familiar release of a shield spell.

His smile grows even wider.

* * *

Bucky’s in the middle of deflecting a blow from one Hydra agent when the one swinging at him with a pipe takes an arrow to the throat. She drops like a stone, and the surprise Bucky feels at the sight gives the third agent enough time to land a blow to his wounded thigh. Bucky grunts, faltering to his left, and follows the momentum, rolling out of the way, away from the three agents still surrounding him.

“I know I’m impressive,” Barton calls from the other side of the warehouse floor, “but we’ve really got to work on desensitizing you to my hotness if you’re gonna let yourself be distracted in battle.”

Bucky kicks out his right leg at the knees of the closest Hydra agent, and as the man starts to trip forward, an arrow sprouts from his shoulder. The agent cries out, and Bucky moves under his body as it falls through the air, using his momentum to push him out towards another agent coming at him from the right. They clatter together, awkward and fumbling, and Bucky rights himself to square up with the third agent.

“Impressive my ass,” Bucky yells back, in case Barton’s hearing aids aren’t picking up his voice in all of the background noise of the fights both inside and outside of the warehouse. “I’m just pissed you’re trying to steal my thunder.”

He feints to the side as the agent charges him with both arms extended, delivering two quick punches to the man’s ribs as he passes. The agent’s breath is knocked out of him, and Bucky feels the crunch of ribs underneath his fists. He finds the feeling doesn’t bother him _quite_ as much as it has before.

“You know, Steve says we gotta work more like a team,” Barton yells, and Bucky hazards a glance in his direction. He’s no longer looking at Bucky, his bow aimed instead at the herd of Hydra operatives charging Wanda’s barriers. He releases arrows quickly, one after another, and talks his way through it. It might be the sexiest thing Bucky’s ever seen. “Your Stevie might be disappointed to hear you talking like that.”

“Stevie’s always disappointed,” Bucky responds, striding up to the agent who’s now on the ground, groaning. He kicks him once in the head, just enough to knock him out, then turns to face the two remaining men. The one with Clint’s arrow in him has a gun raised in a wavering hand, and Bucky quickly discounts him, instead going for the yet uninjured agent. Bucky’d run out of bullets not long after they arrived on the warehouse floor, but he still has an empty SIG he’d taken from the first agent he’d run into in the warehouse. He throws it at the uninjured guard, because anything is a projectile if you want it to be.

“I’m gonna tell him you said that,” Barton says playfully.

“Like he doesn’t know,” Bucky replies. The gun cartwheels through the air, and though his aim isn’t perfect, it’s distracting enough for him to get close to the agent he’d thrown it at, flinging his metal arm up to cover his face from the wayward bullets shot at him from the agent with an arrow still sticking out of his shoulder. One ricochets off of his wrist, and he hears a pained grunt as it deflects back and hits the agent who’d fired it in the chest.

How handy.

Bucky bites down a chuckle as he lunges towards the final agent, who throws his forearm up to parry Bucky’s downward chop. They trade blows, the agent clearly well-trained while Bucky is still recovering from being tranquilized only a few hours before. Bucky begins to break through his defenses, an uppercut landing against the agent’s ribcage, when his opponent is suddenly surrounded by a red bubble. Bucky stops, panting, and looks around.

The mass of Hydra operatives lies littered in a gruesome pile around Wanda, who’s got her hands up, controlling the bubble around the last agent. She moves her hands through the air towards her. “Perhaps SHIELD will want to talk to him?”

Bucky starts to reply that that’s probably a good idea before the agent in the bubble starts to writhe.

“Aw, poison, no,” Barton says. “We forgot about that stupid self-sacrifical shit.”

Wanda looks alarmed.

“It’s not your fault.” Bucky steps around the other agents at his feet to head towards her. “At the bunker one of the scientists had some sort of poison capsule that he took instead of being taken captive. I guess it’s not just scientists that have them.”

Wanda slowly lowers the bubble behind Bucky, and he very intentionally does not look back at the choking noises he can hear burbling from the agent’s throat.

From the other side of the room, Barton walks towards them, bow in hand. He waves it awkwardly, and promptly trips over the edge of a shelf. He stumbles, and Bucky watches in morbid fascination as he spins in the air, faltering footsteps catching against a Hydra agent’s body as he overcompensates. His bow goes flying as he lurches, and he falls to the ground, a whirlwind of blonde, black, and purple.

“Ow,” he says. “I think I just sprained my wrist.”

Bucky sighs, recognizing the overwhelming feeling in his chest as fondness, and strides over, grabbing Barton by the shoulder and the strap of his quiver. He hauls the taller man up, and they’re standing chest-to-chest, Barton leaning against him, looking down sheepishly.

“And here I thought _we_ were rescuing _you_ ,” Barton says, and really, Bucky can’t keep thinking of this absolute piece of perfection as Barton can he?

Bucky tilts his chin up and kisses Clint.

There’s the briefest of hesitations, then Clint is kissing Bucky back, gentle and sweet, as if this is the most pleasant of surprises that he doesn’t want to spoil. There’s blood on both of them, sweat dripping down their faces, but Bucky finds himself able to concentrate entirely on the feeling of Clint’s lips against his.

They’re soft, if just as chapped as Bucky’d expect, and Bucky can feel the moment Clint’s lips tilt up into the smile that he’s grown so stupid fond of. They’re lips with laughter waiting in the corners, with affection easily spilled and shared, with self-doubt ready to be chased away and proven wrong. They’re lips that know just what to say to make Bucky feel comfortable, that just as easily drop a joke as leave Bucky reeling with their sincerity.

Bucky’s got both hands settled up on Clint’s shoulders, and Clint moves one hand to rest on his right hip, warm through Bucky’s thin shirt. Clint raises his other hand to the back of Bucky’s neck to deepen the kiss, calloused fingers rasping against his skin and—

“Shit,” Clint says, sucking air in between his teeth and moving his head back. “Definitely sprained.”

He looks down at Bucky, and the warmth in his eyes connects to the warmth radiating from his hand on Bucky’s hip, sending a glow throughout his whole body. Bucky worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I shouldn’t have done that without asking. I’m sorry. Was that okay?”

Clint’s expression tells him that that was _more_ than okay, even before he says, “Yeah, of course.” Clint lets out a breath against Bucky’s face, a sigh of relief that ripples its way down through his shoulders. “But you know we’re gonna have to talk about this.”

Bucky smirks. “You bet your ass we are. We’re both a little too fucked up to get into a relationship without talking through shit.”

Clint’s eyebrows raise, and the smile spreading across his face is blinding. “A relationship? Where we talk about things first? Shit, Buck, Sam’s gonna be so proud of us.”

“He won’t be if you don’t get out of here alive.” Wanda’s voice is drier than he’s ever heard it, and Bucky glances around him to realize that he and Clint have been surrounded by a glowing red shield that encompasses the two of them, Wanda, and a few of the Hydra agents, and that oh, they’re being fired on by new operatives running in from a far stairwell.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clint says, resting his good arm across Bucky’s shoulders. “I bet you could hold this shield long enough for the rest of the team to take care of these guys.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but doesn’t refute him.

Clint’s hand runs absently up and down Bucky’s metal shoulder as he reports in through his comms. “Hawkeye is with Winter and Scarlet in the warehouse, ground level. Scarlet is holding a shield, but we’d appreciate some back up.”

Bucky feels Clint’s chuckle along his side, warm and welcome, and can just make out the buzz of Stark’s tinny voice through Clint’s aids.

Clint extends his other arm to pull Wanda to his side, sliding the one on Bucky’s arm down to his waist, settling his hand back on Bucky’s hip. Bucky can feel the press of his fingertips like tiny shocks as Clint tightens his grip around both of them as much as he’s able with his injury.

“You guys are in for a trip.”

Bucky has about a half second to begin to furrow his brow in confusion before the wall explodes behind the Hydra agents and a blur of red and gold flies through, blue-white beams lighting its way. 

Bucky’s not even embarrassed as his mouth drops open. “What the fuck is that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to thank y'all enough for reading along! All of your kudos and subscriptions and comments have meant so much to me, a baby fic writer, new and so, so in love with this world and fandom. We've got one chapter to go, cause hey, as the boys said, they've got some talkin' to do. 
> 
> Plus, you know, therapy doesn't just _stop_ when you defeat some bad guys :)


	10. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey, so it turns out that progress is a cycle: resolving, revolving, and renewing all over again._

Dr. Cho is just leaving Bucky’s side in the med bay back at Stark Tower when Steve eases up to him, arms crossed, hangdog look in his eyes, and Bucky can tell he’s about to launch into an apologetic monologue about guilt and responsibility: a classic Stevie martyr move. Such a predictable idiot.

Bucky flicks him in the nose to prevent it, and Steve reels backwards, affronted.

“I’m fine, Steve. I forgive you, and it wasn’t even your fault.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He huffs, and sits down next to Bucky. “You can’t say it wasn’t my fault, Buck. I made that call to send you in without more backup.”

“Mmm,” Bucky hums, “maybe I’ll allow you a little bit of the blame. But you were also relying on Coulson’s recommendations—the recommendations of your more experienced commanding officer, and all intel pointed towards things being okay. I know you did your research; I trust you about those things now. In the moment, you made the right call. You shouldn’t hold it against yourself. I know I won’t.” 

Steve frowns like he’s going to argue, and Bucky can read his feelings as they spread across his face, regret and guilt just as sharp as they were when they first saw each other in the hospital nearly a month after the mission where Bucky’d lost his arm. Steve has been beating himself up about situations exactly like this for years now.

In a long exhale, Steve lets the tension bleed from his shoulders and slumps up against Bucky. “No promises on that front,” he says, “but I’ll work on it.”

“I know you will,” Bucky replies. He straightens against Steve, puffing out his chest. “Besides, I dunno why you’re feeling so bad, I totally had it handled myself. Woulda gotten out in a coupla minutes if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

Steve doesn’t smile at his boast, looking down at his hands, still wrapped in the gloves of his stealth suit from the fight.

“I know that you’re capable, Buck, but when we got the files about what they wanted to do with you, when I saw the mock-ups to turn you into a mindless soldier, a weapon to do Hydra’s bidding, God, Bucky, I just—I know how you feel about yourself, your arm, and I, I know—” Steve looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. “I couldn’t help but be scared for you.”

Bucky shrugs. It’s not like Steve’s concern for him is a new thing. “Lucky for us, I’ve been working on that. The whole, how I see myself and everything.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s eyes shift down from the ceiling so that they’re staring together out into the med bay again.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “And I think what it boils down to is that I know I’m in the right place now, Stevie. I’m glad that we decided to do this together, that you’re here with me, and that you fucking made me go to therapy.”

Steve snorts. “Well hold the phones, let me just call the press and tell them that James Buchanan Barnes is grateful that I forced him to do something. The stubborn asshole even said it out loud.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re the asshole,” Bucky says, knocking at Steve’s hands which had come up to gesture dramatically in the air. “Here I am trying to be genuine and you gotta be a punk about it.”

“Takes one to know one, jerk,” Steve says.

Bucky feels the flutter of vulnerability in his stomach, one he’s started to recognize the value of outside of therapy sessions, and continues. “Here I was, gonna try and thank you for being a good friend, for always sticking with me, for forcing me to do something that would help. I was gonna go into a whole thing about how you’ve always inspired me to do the right thing, and because of you forcing me into therapy, I finally understand for myself what it means to make my own choices for myself, my body, my fucking life, and I’m like, good with it. Fucked up still, but good with it.”

Steve has pulled back from him, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. Bucky smirks as his fear of vulnerability fades in light of having the upper hand over Steve.

“I was gonna tell you all that, gonna have this whole conversation about wanting to be intentional in who I am, wanting to be more involved in SHIELD’s decisions like I know you’ve wanted me to since we joined up…” He pauses, looking around the med bay for inspiration, and spots Clint, Dr. Cho frowning as she unwraps his ribs. “I was gonna tell you about how I’ve found other people besides you to support me as I figure out who I want to be, but you know what, you wanna be a fucking punk? Guess I won’t tell you about all of that.”

If he didn’t know him any better, he’d say Steve looks like he’s about to cry. Bucky smiles, letting the teasing fall from his voice.

“Seriously, Steve, maybe it’s partially the fucking post-kidnapping and escape adrenaline comedown, but I’m grateful to be here. Thankful for what brought me here. Looking forward to moving forward, to choosing where we go and what we do next.”

Steve takes a moment to process, thinking before speaking for once in his goddamn life. He passes his hand through his hair, pulling slightly on the strands. “So, what you’re telling me is that even after all this, you still want to be here? This is your,” he squints, the words rolling around in his mouth, “your choice, the one you want to make?”

Bucky nods firmly. “Choosing not to question the way things are is the worst choice of all. We learned that back in the Army, and it’s more clear than ever now. Cause the thing is—we’re in positions of power now, Stevie, both literally and figuratively. We have to use that power to hold others accountable.”

Steve uncrosses his arms, expression clearing. He glances across the med bay and Bucky follows his eyes to where Natasha is signing furiously at Clint, whose hearing aids are lying abandoned on the table beside him. Natasha looks fondly annoyed in between the expressive facial movements required for effective sign, and Clint’s justifications for his injury are loud and defensive, as if he’s surprised she’s upset with him. “Plus,” Steve suggests, turning back to Bucky. “We’ve got a whole team to help us hold people accountable now, don’t we?”

Bucky watches Barton bat away Natasha’s hovering hands then pull her tight into a hug, wincing as she squeezes his torso, which technically still contains a cracked rib in addition to two bullet grazes. Bucky huffs, then rolls his eyes when he sees Steve’s smirk.

“Yeah, that we do.”

Clint catches Bucky’s gaze over Natasha’s head and makes the sign for calling, and Bucky nods, though he’ll do better than that, since they’re both staying in the tower for the night. This is the kind of conversation they need to have in person.

He turns back to Steve, steamrolling right over the joke he can see forming on his lips. “Hey, speaking of accountability, I saw one of the scientists from the bunker in the lab tonight. Do you know anything about that?”

Steve frowns. “No, last I heard they were on their way to interrogation. I can talk to Coulson about it.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “I will during the debrief tomorrow, too.” 

Steve stands, brushing the knees of his uniform off. “You should go shower, jerk. You stink.”

“You’re one to talk, punk,” Bucky replies, their familiar banter easing something he realizes hasn’t felt quite right in a long time.

Steve taps him on the shoulder before heading off to the other side of the med bay to talk to Stark, who has just come down from his lab, where he’d left his Ironman suit. Steve’s gotta check in with all his team members, protective metal casing or not.

Bucky stands too, glancing across the way at Natasha and Clint as the redhead helps the archer up and off his bed. Clint’s protesting the help loudly, and Natasha steps back, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. Clint thanks her sarcastically and takes four steps towards the door before tripping over the leg of a tray table, bringing it crashing to the floor with him.

Bucky smiles, and the feeling in his chest grows looser, warmer.

Yep, that’s him. That’s the one.

* * *

Clint is still in the bathroom, toweling off his hair roughly, when a message from JARVIS appears on the mirror in front of him.

_‘Mr. Barnes is at the door to your apartment.’_

“Oh,” Clint says, glancing around for his aids. “Let him in in a minute, would you? I should probably put on pants.”

_‘That is usually advisable.’_

“Someone’s feeling sassy, today, aren’t they?” Clint smirks into the mirror. He tucks both aids into his ears and runs a hand through his hair. Well, the last time Bucky saw him, he’d been covered in blood and sweat, so surely he wouldn’t mind messy hair. Clint scrunches his nose at his reflection, watching the wrinkles around his eyes deepen, a cut on his cheek crack; besides, Bucky should know what he’s getting into. “Will you let him know I’ll be out in a second?”

 _‘Of course_ , _Mr. Barton’_ appears on the wall of the bedroom he’s only stayed in once before.

He moves to the dresser and rifles through it, uncovering a pair of sweatpants stamped with a Stark Industries logo, and a red and yellow shirt. He holds the shirt up and squints at it suspiciously. Trust Tony to have stocked their apartments with official Ironman swag before officially coming out as the metal superhero.

He pulls both items on and heads out into the living room. Bucky’s waiting for him, hovering in the doorway, hands tucked into the pocket of the black hoodie he has on.

“Aw, man,” Clint says, heading towards the couch. “How come you had a hoodie in your apartment? All I had were these stupid Tony Stark fanclub shirts.”

Bucky pulls his hands out of the pocket and starts to tentatively sign in slow, cautious movements. [ _Can we talk about what happened?_ ] he signs, before pausing, then cautiously moving his right hand from the side of his mouth to his cheekbone, and Clint grins because Coulson had definitely not included the sign for kiss in any of their training binders.

Clint taps his hearing aids. “I’ve got my ears in now, we can talk out loud.”

Bucky nods and moves hesitantly towards him, taking a seat on the edge of the couch as though ready to take flight. “Okay, good,” he says, then looks stricken. “I mean, it’s not good that you have your aids in, I don’t mean to imply that it’s not okay when you don’t, it’s just that I’m not that fluent in ASL yet, and I feel like we have important things to talk about.”

Clint latches on to that one word— _yet_. He waves his hands at Bucky’s stumbling. “No, no, you’re good, I know what you meant. I don’t want to miscommunicate either.”

Bucky relaxes back minutely into the couch, though his back is still tense. “Exactly.”

“Well,” Clint says, “you came here. You wanna go first?”

Bucky looks pained, blinking his eyes up at the ceiling before shaking his head and sighing. “Sure.”He pauses, studying his hands, then chuckles, glancing up at Clint through the wet strands of hair that have swung low to cover his face.

“You know, this was a lot easier in the middle of a Hydra firefight.”

Clint laughs. “What do they call that—the heat of the moment? Makes sense. Emotions are high.” He frowns, then adds, “But those same emotions are here now, I think, right? Just a little harder to get at?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, then braces himself, closing his eyes. “Look. I like you a lot, Barton. Clint. I think I’ve been slowly realizing that you’re pretty great for a long time now, and I think we could be really good for each other. I think you’re already pretty good for me.”

Clint can sense his discomfort, so he puts his hand out, placing it gently against the closest of Bucky’s, which happens to be the metal one. Bucky startles at the touch, eyes snapping open. Clint smiles, and lets his hand rest heavy. “I like you a lot too, Bucky.”

Bucky’s returning smile is so grateful that Clint feels guilty when his own sudden bark of laughter causes it to dim. Clint can’t help but keep chortling, though. “Jesus, I really feel like a fucking teenager, but hell if what I’m saying isn’t true.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Great, love being compared to a kid.”

Clint grins back at him. “Sorry about it.” He shifts in his seat and lets the grin fade off his face a little. “So, we said we needed to talk. I think your exact words were something about us both being a little too fucked up for a relationship?”

Bucky sighs and turns his metal hand over so that his palm is up against Clint’s. He begins to speak once Clint wraps his fingers around his palm. “Not too fucked up for a relationship, exactly,” he says, meeting Clint’s eyes. “But too fucked up to not talk about it and be open about it before getting involved. I think we both owe each other, and ourselves, that.”

Clint nods. “Sure. Something about dependency, yada yada, right?”

“Right.”

Clint looks around the room, searching for the words. “The way I see it,” he begins, “people talk about relationships like their significant other is everything to them. And I know that I can’t be everything for you, just like you can’t be everything for me. After all, you’ve got Steve and I’ve got Nat, and we both have the rest of the crew and Sam, right?”

At Bucky’s nod of understanding, he continues. “And also, I have myself, and I’m starting to realize that myself is a pretty decent person and that maybe I should learn to depend on that person a little more. You and Nat and hell, even my goddamn center kids seem to think that I’m a decent person. And if everyone’s telling me that, maybe I should listen? Try to focus on finding out what it is you’re all talking about when you talk about me? Get to know that guy you all say I am a bit.” Clint glances away, feeling a little dumb. “Not that that has to happen outside of a relationship, but I’ve gotta keep that a priority, right? I’m sorry, did that make any sense?”

Bucky’s eyes are clear and focused as a slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, that makes sense. That guy you’re talking about, he seems pretty dependable; I know I’m already depending on him for some things.” He leans back, keeping his hand in Clint’s as the other comes up to brush the dark strands of his hair behind his ears. Clint watches the movement, entranced by his hesitancy and the nerves he can feel made tangible in the way Bucky’s fingers flex around his. “I think what I’m looking for is the chance to get to know more about that guy along with you, if you’ll let me.”

Clint nods, biting his bottom lip through his grin. “Yeah, I think I’d be down for that.”

Bucky smiles, and Clint wishes he would do more of that. But then, the way things are looking, it might be part of Clint’s mission to keep putting that expression on Bucky’s face for the foreseeable future. Well, Bucky would have to do some of that for himself, too, just like Clint wasn’t going to be able to rely on Bucky to make him smile. Clint narrows his eyes, and thinks of how to word it.

“You know that phrase peoplesay—that you can’t love someone if you don’t love yourself first?”

Bucky nods, then frowns. “That’s kind of bullshit though, isn’t it?”

Clint smiles wryly. “Absolutely. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to tell kids at the center that it’s actually damn easy to love someone if you don’t love yourself. It’s entirely possible, it’s just not good for you, is the thing. It’s not healthy to love someone so much that you forget to keep trying to love yourself too.” He looks out over Bucky’s shoulder to the darkened room beyond, because meeting Bucky’s intense grey gaze can be a lot. “It’s been a while since you were a kid, obviously, but maybe you remember what teenagers are like—they get so caught up in a relationship that they start to lose themselves in it, no matter how toxic.”

Clint glances back at Bucky and can see him working through that, brow furrowed. He adjusts his hand around Bucky’s, threading their fingers together, a juxtaposition of warm flesh and cool metal. Clint shifts on the couch, then adds, “And I think that’s where I’ve been going wrong for so long. I’ve loved everyone so much, cared about everyone and everything else but myself, from work to my friends to this team, that I forgot to keep trying to love, or take care of myself, too.”

He sees when realization breaks the horizon on Bucky’s face, and the resolve that comes after, a burning morning sun. Bucky inhales before speaking, as though he's hesitant before a confession. “I get that, I think. I know that I don’t love myself, not yet, but I do think that I don’t hate myself like I used to. I also know that my friends caring about me, or even you caring about me aren’t enough if I don’t care about myself. I know that…” he trails off, and chuckles to himself. “This sounds stupid, but I know that I’m not all bad, and I’m worthy of love, of forgiveness. Of good things, even. And I know that I have to be the one who decides that.”

Bucky turns to face him fully, and Clint looks him in the face as he takes a deep inhale. “I know that this body I have now, these powers, this arm, this person that I am—I’m not all bad, and I get to choose who I am.” He takes Clint’s other hand in his. “I get to choose who I am, what I do, who I do it with. I get to choose to do good, be good. And I think that maybe one of those good choices is being with you.”

Now, it’s been a long time since Clint’s been in the early stages of a relationship, but he’s pretty sure most ‘hey, I’ve got a crush on you’ confessions aren’t supposed to feel like the person’s decision to be with you is tied up in their existential confirmation of self. But maybe that’s just how he and Bucky are supposed to be. They did meet in therapy, after all.

“Well shit, Bucky, don’t you know how to make a guy feel special.”

Bucky’s laughter is warm and smooth, and Clint can feel his grip tighten around his hands, fingers of his metal hand just as gentle as the other.

“So, Barton, what do you think? You willing to get to know this guy cause he wants to get to know you at the same time as he gets to figuring out who he is while you get to figuring out who you are?”

Clint laughs. “You know, out of context, that really makes zero sense.”

Bucky chuckles, smile wide. “You make it pretty damn easy to stop making sense, Barton.” At Clint’s eye roll, he adds, “But really. You down to let me show you how much you matter? I’ll even let you remind me that I’m a decent human every once in a while.”

And if that isn’t the realest way to sum up their budding relationship, Clint doesn’t know what is.

Clint looks down at their hands, all four clasped together across their knees on the couch. He brings them up between them, adjusting their fingers and turning his wrists so both of Bucky’s hands are on top. He kisses first the back of Bucky’s metal hand, then his flesh hand, soft, gentle, like he’s a lord meeting a lady; like Bucky is someone to be respected, protected, cherished. Because, well, he is.

When he looks up, Bucky’s smile has softened, and Clint studies the way his dark lashes frame his grey eyes, vulnerable and expressive in a way he thinks not many people get to see.

“Yeah, I’d be real down for reminding you how human you are.”

* * *

“…And after the first person describes what their success was, the other two people are going to reflect back what they heard the first person say. Anything that you heard them say, any subtext; you can offer analysis or insight, whatever. But the thing is, the first person can’t chime in. You can’t add anything, you just gotta sit there and listen to the other two talk about you and your success. You can take notes though, if you want.”

Sam looks around the room, nodding when he notices Clint’s awkward shuffle. “Yeah, it might be a little awkward, but you’ll get through it.” Clint shoots Bucky a clear ‘help me’ look, but Bucky shrugs, because he’s in the same boat. Sam continues with his instructions. “The next step is another reflection. Person one, you’ll say what you heard persons two and three say. This might seem redundant, but I promise it’ll be worth it. Once person one is done, you’ll move on to person two, then repeat the process.”

“So, one share, two and three reflect, one reflect, rotate and repeat?” Steve clarifies, looking up from his paper where Bucky can see from across the room that he’s written out the step-by-step instructions.

“Exactly. I’ll keep a repeating two minute timer up—thanks JARVIS—so you know when to move on. When all three of you have gone, we’ll take a couple minutes for you to talk with your group to see if you can identify any common themes or factors that led to your successes. Any other questions?”

Bucky shakes his head in concert with most of the other people, and looks down at his paper, where he’d written his answer to Sam’s guiding prompt for this protocol. _‘Identify a success from yesterday. Be specific; what made it different from other successes you’ve had?’_

_I was able to trust myself and my actions, and because of that, I was able to help Wanda escape. I also helped myself. Differences: I didn’t hate what I was doing, a day later, I still don’t regret it. I was able to put aside my concerns because I had Wanda to worry about? I just kinda said fuck this hydra bs— if they’re telling me I’m a weapon I’m damn well gonna prove them wrong, and why tf am I telling myself the same thing hydra’s telling me?_

“Alright, person one, you can begin,” Sam says, and the clock that JARVIS is projecting over his head starts ticking down from two minutes.

Next to Bucky in an armchair is Banner, who leans forward, his own paper in hand. “My success from yesterday is that I let Hulk out, and it wasn’t the end of the world. I was the Hulk…responsibly?” He smiles small. “I didn’t think I could do that. Obviously I still caused a lot of structural damage and it took a lot longer than I’d like to return to myself after the fight was over, but no bystanders were hurt, and I’m really proud of that. I think it was different because I knew that I had to do it, that no matter how much I hate that side of me, letting him out was worth it, for you guys.”

He makes eye contact with Bucky, then Wanda, who’s sitting on the ground, a large fluffy blanket wrapped around her. She smiles at him encouragingly, and Bucky wishes Sam wasn’t so stringent about them sticking to protocol and staying silent so he could thank Banner.

The timer hits the zero, and Wanda starts. “I heard Bruce say that he allowed the Hulk to come out yesterday, and was pleased that he was able to control him enough to help.”

Bucky nods. “And this was his success because he didn’t know before that this could be done, that he could help keep us safe.”

“I think that before, he did not know that the Hulk could be good, like this.”

“Exactly,” Bucky agrees, frowning slightly, because it suddenly feels like they’re talking about him instead of Bruce. “I think what I heard Banner saying was that he didn’t realize how this part of himself isn’t something to be scared of.”

“Hmm,” Wanda hums, twining the ends of her braid through her fingers. “That makes me think about how maybe this was a success because he decided to do this thing he was scared of when, like he said, it was worth it. Being the Hulk was scary and he hates it, but he can be the Hulk to protect others.”

“And it’s okay to embrace that side of himself,” Bucky offers, then looks at Banner, who’s staring down at his paper to avoid their eyes. “It’s not the end of the world. It helped.”

The timer hits zero.

Banner clears his throat as the timer begins to count back down, and thirty seconds pass before he says anything.

“I think you’re both right. I’ve been trying so hard to push the Hulk away because even before the explosion, I always hated the angry side of myself. It ruined things for me at work and in relationships. So to have my anger so big, manifested physically…it’s been terrifying. Shameful, even.” He pauses, only a few seconds left. “Yesterday was the first time where I said you know what? It doesn’t matter how scared or uncomfortable I am, my team is worth it.”

The timer zeros out on the wall, and Sam’s smooth voice interrupts them. “Good job, Bruce, Clint, thanks for being willing to go first. Wanda, Steve, your go when the timer begins.”

The room takes a collective breath, their emotions high, and Bucky allows himself a glance over at Clint. They weren’t hiding their relationship: that’d be impossible in this group, as intertwined as their lives all are, but they _are_ taking things slow, and taking things slow means nothing too overt, not yet.

Clint’s already looking at him when he glances his way, and it still shocks Bucky a little, that Clint might be looking to him for comfort.

Bucky finger spells under his seat where he knows Clint can see. [ _You ok?_ ]

Barton knocks in the air beside his couch as he nods, his smile grateful. [ _Yes._ ]

Bucky nods, then turns back to Wanda a few seconds before the timer begins, because he knows better than to let their relationship get in the way of showing their friends respect in a vulnerable environment like this. He stifles a chuckle as a memory flashes into his mind of an angry Banner the night of the explosion, when Bucky’d been distracted by the Hydra activity outside the therapy center. He’d been kind of a dick, even if there were super secret, life altering experiments going on next door.

The timer resets at two minutes, and Wanda begins to speak. “The success I want to talk about is the shields I created when Bucky and I were escaping from the cells….”

* * *

“Thank you, Natasha and Bucky, for rounding us out,” Sam says, patting Bucky on the shoulder as he stands up from where he’d been listening in on that trio’s conversation.

Clint’s heart feels a pang when he sees Bucky’s eyes widen minutely at the contact, as though he can’t believe someone would willingly touch his prosthetic.

They’ve got a lot of work to do.

Sam moves back to his original spot, reclining back in one of the overstuffed armchairs Tony had added to the Avengers lounge the moment Steve had off-handedly mentioned needing bigger seats than most people. Clint is still a little unsure what motivates Tony to buy absolutely anything and everything for people. Maybe it’s some kind of coping mechanism. Shoot, now that Tony’s on the team, should they invite him to therapy? Dude could probably really use it.

“For the next part of the protocol, I’m going to give you guys five or so minutes to try to identify the factors that contributed to your successes, as well as any patterns that you see. After those five minutes are up, we’ll share out. Sound good?”

At everyone’s nod, Sam points at the ceiling, and JARVIS obligingly begins a five minute countdown.

“Okay,” Steve says, head craning down over his notebook, where Clint has watched him meticulously take notes of everything he and Nat said during the first part of the protocol. “Factors, trends, patterns.”

[ _This guy_ ] Clint signs at Nat. She doesn’t respond beyond a faint glimmer in her eye that is quickly tamped down by her reproving frown, and yeah, Clint probably shouldn’t talk about someone directly in front of them. He returns her look with an expression he hopes conveys an appropriate amount of shame.

“Factors that led to my success,” Clint begins, because maybe that’s the way to make up for his disrespect, then stalls, because he actually doesn’t have anything to add.

“Your success was all about keeping yourself safe, which you were able to do while still helping your team,” Steve helpfully supplies.

“And you said that what allowed that to happen was that you finally realized that you matter,” Nat adds, “which we know is because you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that lately.”

When she says it like that, Clint thinks, it sounds a little egotistical. He squirms, and tries to reframe his thinking. “Okay, so…would a factor be like…self reflection? Of goals? On goals?”

“I think so,” Steve says, jotting it down in his notebook.

“Definitely,” Nat adds. “Part of why you were able to succeed was that you had spent time reflecting on who you wanted to be, and what that meant for you. I think that’s maybe a factor for me, too.”

“Shit, Nat,” Clint says, eyes widening in realization. “Don’t tell me this is all a set up, and Sam is just trying to get us to say that therapy’s working.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but Clint can see her smirk, and Steve outright laughs.

“I think you’ve got him figured out, alright,” Steve chuckles. He looks back at his notebook and scratches his head with the end of his pen. “I think a factor for me was trusting others.”

Clint nods, because that makes sense. Steve’s success had been about allowing the team to do their jobs, trusting everyone, even Tony, to do what they needed to do in order to save his best friend. He had mentioned how he’d been fighting the urge to just charge in with metaphorical guns blazing (shield spinning, in his case), which he might’ve done years before when he was in an Army company of men he didn’t completely trust.

“Maybe also…allowing yourself to be someone different?” Clint puts out tentatively. At Steve’s frown, he clarifies. “Allowing yourself to change to fit the circumstances. Like sure, in the future, you might need to be your rash self and hell, dive out of a plane without a parachute or something reckless and stupid, but you knew that this situation required something different from you?”

“Yeah, I think that fits. ” Steve adds the comment to his notebook. He pauses, frowns, then glares accusingly at Clint, pen extended like a weapon. “And don’t let Bucky tell you about any of my skydiving experiences. Or that time in Afghanistan. Anything he tells you is a lie. I would _never_ not wear a parachute. I have _always_ worn a parachute.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Nat murmurs quietly, and Steve shoots his disappointed frown at her next, like he can’t believe they’d think so little of him.

“Moving on,” Steve says, pointedly smoothing his face. “Anything else? Other factors?”

Clint shakes his head and tunes out Nat as she leans towards Steve, a clear desire to needle him about the parachute issue written on her face. You wouldn’t know it from looking at her, but she’s got a real soft spot for idiot blondes.

Instead of listening to a tirade he’s doubtless heard himself several times before, he turns his attention to Bucky, who’s still in the middle of conversation with Bruce and Wanda. Clint studies his movements, watches the way he slants towards Wanda as she speaks, eyes focused and open, head nodding gently in confirmation of her words. He’s got his hair pulled back this afternoon, a few shorter strands drifting out to whisper against his neck. His prosthetic is hidden for the most part by a dark red henley, soft and worn, stretching over muscles and metal alike.

Bruce adds something that makes Wanda laugh, and Clint watches Bucky’s eyes crinkle, his mouth turning up as he shakes his head and presses a hand to his face before gesturing at Bruce in exasperation. There’s an inherent grace in his movements, a genuine kindness and compassion for the people he’s with that’s spilling out into his very presence.

Clint wonders how anyone could ever look in the mirror at that and see something worth hating.

Sam’s voice startles him out of his contemplation, and he jerks, easing his chin up off of the hand it’d been resting on.

“That’s time, and from what I can hear of your conversations, you’re ready to move on. Let’s go ahead and share out the factors and trends you noticed—we’ll alternate, and I’ll have JARVIS project on the wall. Wanda, your group first?”

Wanda nods. “One thing we all had in common was trusting ourselves.”

“Which fits with one of ours,” Steve adds. “Which was trusting each other.”

“You punk, you stole that from us,” Bucky accuses, and Steve squawks in indignation.

Clint laughs, and can feel Nat laughing beside him. Even Sam’s grinning, and Clint sees Bruce mouth something that looks an awful lot like ‘children’.

Slowly, the list of factors piles up, and soon, the wall opposite the television is filled with soft orange text.

_1\. Trust yourself_

_2\. Trust each other_

_3\. Take risks (especially when you have a support system)_

_4\. Self reflection_

_5\. Do the things that scare you most about yourself_

_6\. Allow yourself to change_

_7\. Talk about shit_

Sam gives them a few minutes to study the list, before raising his eyebrows. “Alright. Last step. Y’all ready?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Clint says, “I think I’m still tripping over the self-help book we just wrote on the wall there.”

Thing is, he’s not really joking. Wanda laughs like he is, and he’s sure others interpret it that way, but Bucky’s nodding, arched brows rueful as he looks at the wall, and Clint knows that he knows: how the hell are they at a point where they can contribute to something like this? They’re a couple of screw-ups from Brooklyn, but this…this is visual proof that they’re getting better. That they’re capable of more than they ever thought possible.

Sam rolls his eyes, which Clint didn’t know therapists were allowed to do. “Okay, Clint, ready or not, last step. I want you guys to think about what it would take to consciously create conditions that lead to success. Y’all just listed a bunch of factors, now, what might you need to do to keep these successes happening? To get repeat performances?”

“Communicate,” Steve states immediately, and Sam nods encouragingly.

“Be honest, even when we’re struggling,” Natasha adds, “even if it’s really hard.”

“Honesty’s important,” Sam agrees.

“Keep taking risks?” Bruce says, then closes his eyes, looking pained. “Let ourselves feel real emotions?”

Clint figures that maybe the former of those isn’t necessarily the best advice for him, but the latter is one he knows he’s gotta work on, and probably help Nat work through, too.

“Whenever we don’t trust ourselves, ask why that is,” Bucky muses quietly.

Clint hums in agreement. He’s got a head full of shit telling him that he’s not worth anyone’s time, that the team shouldn’t trust him; he’s sure that every single person in the room right now has demons of their own yelling garbage like that. Good thing they’ve got a team full of people in therapy who can usually recognize that toxic brain spew for the lie that it is.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, meeting Bucky’s grey gaze. “Chances are one of us would be willing to knock some sense into the other about how dumb we’re being.”

“Keep showing up to therapy?” Wanda’s eyes are mischievous, her tone light and playful, her heart happy, healing, finally home.

Sam laughs, low and delighted. He claps his hands together, head leaning back against the wall. “Oh, man, y’all found me out.”

“I fucking knew it,” Clint exclaims, and he sits up so quickly he tips out of his seat.

Nat sighs and leans over to help him up, grasping his forearm above his sprained wrist gently, and as he’s scrambling back into the chair, he sees Bucky roll his eyes, even while a fond smile spreads across his lips.

It’s a look Clint thinks he’s going to get to see a lot from now on.

Clint’s a bit of a disaster, he knows. A little bit more than kind of messy. He makes mistakes, ends up on the ground more often than not when trying to walk across a room. But Bucky knows all this—he’s seen Clint trip over nothing, sprain a wrist, then forget about the sprain not a minute later. He’s seen Clint covered in mud, sending the contents of his backpack flying across the Avengers’ conference room. He’s seen Clint break down in the middle of a therapy session, fumble and flounder his way through excuses and apologies and self-deprecating diatribes and still, still, Bucky’s choosing him.

Bucky winks, dusky eyes happy and content, and Clint knows also that he’s seen the messy side of Bucky, too. He’s seen Bucky turn inwards and lash out at those around him; he’s seen Bucky criticize and cause harm to those he cares about most, his inner turmoil caustic, corrosive and entirely counterproductive to anything like progress. Clint’s seen Bucky doubt and distrust himself even more than Clint himself does, which is, in and of itself, an impressive accomplishment.

Clint returns Bucky’s wink with a genuine smile of his own, and as they lock eyes across the room, the sounds of their friends muted and hazy around them, Clint watches Bucky’s expression soften, easing from teasing to sincere, a promise of a choice made knowing full well just what they’re getting into.

Clint knows a lot of things about himself and a lot of things about Bucky. Therapy and gaining life-changing radiation-caused superpowers together will do that to people. He knows each of Bucky’s faults, but he also knows each of his hopes, his aspirations, his dreams for self-realization and growth. More than that, too, he knows exactly the type of person that Bucky can be, really, that Bucky _is_ , when he allows himself to be. Clint knows the goodness in Bucky’s heart, the compassion he has for his friends, for the world, for Clint.

Wanda says something to Bucky, and he looks away, breaking the spell. Clint blinks, and the voices of their friends grow in his ears again, joyous, joking, and utterly perfect. 

Steve and Natasha are laughing together, Nat’s expression unguarded, youthful in its openness and lack of reservation. Sam’s joined Bucky’s trio, smile wide across his face as he, Bruce, and Bucky give all their attention to Wanda’s story, a captive and willing audience.

Yeah, Clint’s pretty content with the choices he’s making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's](https://schoolreforminitiative.org/doc/success_ana_individuals.pdf) the protocol used in this chapter. It really is powerful. 
> 
> In October I asked myself, _what would happen if the Avengers met in therapy?_ I hope you enjoyed the world that I created in answer to that. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. I love this crew with all of my heart and am so glad they found a place in yours. 
> 
> [tumblr](https://noxnthea.tumblr.com/)


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